under ciara... the moon trickles
itself as quicksilver onto
metal, wood, and brick...
a rare lacklustre being revived -
and given that there's
no paparazzi frost...
the cure would never become
the stone roses:
because (a) i wanna be adored
and (b) fool's gold...
sally cinnamon: prior to brit pop...
the moon dilutes and becomes...
less a choccie broad hiding frenzy
of the buds...
and more... when the light freezes
a mirror and becomes a waterfall...
it's not white, it's not grey...
it's silver, it's not silver...
it's a gesticulation of the most absent...
under ciara...
i have seen crows turn into priests...
and i have seen priests turn into crows...
while at the same time vacant...
nothing to sell but lamb-shanks...
while Edward would tip-toe and pretend:
i eve's wearing stilletos!

how's whittle britain: way-lay-aside the,
"lady"?
fetch me a rollie that was smoked...
then died... from snuggling to
an added breath... then bring me back
a cohibian st. juan of...
wet cigars... i want wet cigars...
tobacco so wet i will have to
chew and chow-mein it rather than...
smoke it...

prize? attempting to keep cool...
with a cat burdened with a moth...
that's not a moth but a furr-ball:
that's not a ball that's a quasi-bulimia...

this, of the many...
the most memorable storm to plague
england;
because "says so".