The scratches feel raw
Dirt frames the arches under my nails.
Dirt tastes good on goat cheese with Maldon salt
Our soiled fingers intertwined as you rip your lips into the nape of my neck
Wild blueberries ***** against my belly as you push hard inside me from behind.
We lie slumped, content, complete
The trees forever our silent witnesses
How beautiful it is to **** with you!
To linger, spent, smoking a delicious cigarette
Dizzy on ****** and fresh air.
Bread crumbs, cherries, a used ******, dark chocolate melted, two cigarette butts.
Manet would be jealous...

my pocket   has     one nickel    &      Mason's has     a dime;
    a   transient,   red rubber ball ping-ponging  deep  faith with    & for  
        carnival             trash   is what    falls from the
raccoon's mouth    past three;      the      midnight   tour, troupe, &
    egret     have plucked    my eyes out     before    petit dejeuner    
         &    have all booked     residence    with   lush   vagabonds from
   some oasis    on the     curb of Suburbia,   the ottoman wet       where
        lore      slumps the backs of the        fairest;   where,  
  beyond     equanimity   there  boons & beckons  
            tightropes,   slacked tension;     and where     folklore  swells
     arteries       like   King Cake;    the  swamplands  have my    pocket
            picked;   pock-marked    truants    (BOY)    fiddling in fours
  during    school hours,   cakey     margarine  spread all
       over      their    legs         as they      eat grilled cheese and
become,      ****,
           in the    ambrosian   daylight fogged out with    figgy shade
   by thick,   carpet-fondling    curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.

BREXIT BEATS BRUNCH

ESPECIALLY THE FULL
           ENGLISH.

   THE CONTINENTAL
   LEAVES ONE EMPTY.

   IRISH TAKING LEFT
  OVERS NOT CRICKET.

BETTER A BRIT THAN
    A FROG ANYDAY.

    ARLENE FOSTER
  MIEUX QUE LE PEN.

   GOD SAVED OUR
           QUEEN

   1789 EN FRANCE
   LE GUILLOTINE.

  PADDY FOR OUT
IN IS FOR NOUGHT.

The monks pressed wine for the Pope in Avignon.
The Vatican drank fizzy water.
We tasted hand-squeezed orange juice
and eclairs for our petit-dejeuner.
Breakfast at Mas Vieux was a spiritual affair.
Transubstantiation of goat cheese and bread.
Here, the spirit thrives on mortar and stone.
Ancient walls as thick as oaks.
No town lies in sight: the isolation of prayer.
Old Farm grows a bumper crop of transient souls.
They crunch the gravel, find a body called home.