(No Bio provided)
Hang-over
cure
The pain of the
morning rips through my skull
and the taste
of your lips on my own fails
to dull the
ache that leaves
me paralysed.
My eyes loll
to the bedroom
floor, where the
mess remains from
the night before and clothes
with sweat and
ale stains look
too much of our times
to be
moved.
Trapped?
He used to treat her like shit. Haven’t
seen them for a while.
He’s got fat and she
doesn’t wear make-up anymore.
And he still treats her like shit.
Stand
clear of the doors, please
Baggy clothes walk
as if the world owes
them something, tries
to go
down the up
escalator.
Creeping back
into
the fold.
He will become
himself, Hollywood
moment.
B-sides
(and rarities)
Pick up on
the faintest
clue of
what
was meant
to
be,
future echoes
of a sing-along classic.
Knowing heard
a snap-shot
of a time of transformation,
betwixt two
eras: die-hards and
band-wagoners.
We know why
they are here.
Transitions, wave into
another version, playing
on
nostalgic anticipation.
Heat
of the moment, something of
an idea records
fill space, perhaps, cover.
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