"LOSE THAT RHYME"

Feel the insides of my oyster 
as the sharp blades of your fingernails 
pry into  my past:

Cause when the monsters rose up 
and declared themselves vengent upon your vertiginous lawyer, 
that is when we knew to play for free.

"Be Younger", she said, "and lose that morose toxin from your skin, 
then fill your nostrils with the blood of my kin"

Bombarded by the highways of the instamatic martyrs, 
Intimacy becomes a vortex of apologies and excuses.
And have you yet become derisive of her Mancunian wit?
And have you yet come to terms with your similarities to Joyce Dewitt?

I am still living with your Roast, 


Beef.

{POETRY}