Wreath (3)
This winter will be acoustic – the first of its kind
Maybe the bombs will mistletoe in mid-air and will not land screams into silent night
Holy night cafe’s of call girls high smiling up at the fol de rol of Regent street’s lights.
You will pass your younger self upon the street this winter
You will skin your younger self upon the street this winter
The ugly sisters running fashion houses and fronting drag for City of London Corporation’s
Will name all of winter’s new borns and clutch them in their brands

Israel, Europe and North America solsticed as racists and rediscovered the joy of walls
Excitable gun-towers were visibly erect and microphones were placed along the beach
Universities unkinded themselves from freedoms
When the war is bored people will remember how you fought
So stitch that mouth that forms that crusty velvet lipping of I am a monster
You have never been down and out – in Paris or London.

This winter will be acoustic – An urgency of sex and death
The flatness of the bed made bumpy by your bottom was a bobbing cork to a drunken heart
on a drunken boat and I launch yet another attempt – I get quite scared in winter.
We’re an odd little family – leaky and irritable – forever at the mercy of the maids
Holding lovers in loose triangles among city’s and loose triangles of city’s within – as
I escaped and you escaped and we tried to save the others – kind of

Winter palaces without windows in Syria’s buildings – it has no comment on
Tiny dead body’s in blackened pink leggings soiled with the piss of male contempt.
Vibrate yourself and swim deeply out through the lips of wild and ramping desire
Imaginations in eagle’s eyes go screech the night skies – go find your clumsy self
This winter will be acoustic – the ugly dream of a robbing dog
I will halt my younger self upon the street this winter
I will kiss my younger self upon the street this winter


Zimon Drake


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