Oh, it is awfully high from up here –
a power surge, the slit of my skirt intentionally ripped
and yet no one wants the slightest peek.
The man I love must be entwined in the pleats
or is watching the carnival children with more interest
than he has in creating normal infants with me.
Am I not a woman, not fertile?
But my concern is for a bloodied male –
intestines escaping from an abdomen like his coins.
He has been robbed as I have, an empty wallet
while I have an uninhibited ****.
We whirl alone on the ferris wheel and want to get ill.
For when the ride halts, I could climb the
parachute and die with that defeated man on the side –
just not quick enough to be wanted like a carnie.
Becoming an atypical sort of sideshow,
write wishes with a ride’s ***** on my arm, a lovenote
leave with someone whose faith in which I restore.
This is somewhat based on The Smiths' song of the same name. I've always thought it told an interesting story and wanted to hear it from another point of view. C:
The stars are out
and you know the way
- Piccadilly, Rusholme,
These are names that could
freeze your soul in blue
and maybe light a candle
in the dark if you could
only find a spark.
Every building is an open door,
every street an absent flower
that unkown gods collected
long ago when it was raining.
This is England - a promise.
I tell myself - there is a plan.
Just follow through,
be yourself, smile under
this weird constellation and
expect the unexpected,
what you want will happen,
it's just probability
and probability is
always on your side
when you are in Manchester.
Thinking about this city again.
— The End —