*THAT SUNDAY when all smelt like a certain freedom after separation, I put my romantic glasses on and left it all for a stroll around Waterloo. Pace was slow, lonely yet filling.

I THINK that I discovered there, hidden shadows that decided to leave me alone. Powerfully they kissed me, on one cheek, two lips; hanging on the thread to the other side of the Thames.

PROUD CENTRAL, you got me high on feeling alive. . .

Sweet underground of mine, We might be these gypsies entwined, Silver on the ceiling, I breathe helium until I hear the drums.

Show me the way to the banquet, Hand me flesh and clay, A string or two for Edie to trim the liner ok. I’ll come for a wander, for no pay, And you’ll teach us where to go not to stay.

Chelsea or 54, Horses welcome, nudes invited, Missing the economy, Pendants for exchange, Dirty collages as stairway to success and turning into pray.

New York City, where women are slaves, and men in cage. Black and white flowers uptown, Dicks in line down south, They didn’t have a gun, just a ton of pens and paper.

To prove them all wrong, tongues against the wall. Tongues, tongues, tongues. Far from the logical song, They broke the line and forced the tombs.

Here they are, still lying, sipping wine, dead or alive.

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