bleak house music
Last night\’s attempt at poetry stank, quite frankly. I woke up this morning and pulled the chain. Not being one to flush the baby with the bath water, I was loathe to disengage for the want of crying.
Spilt milk; gluey sex; oil pastels; empty bottles. Bleeding containers of takeaway food. Sour spoils. Ah well. I am inured enough to weekend ill tidings. Salvation armies march on their stomachs. There is a circle of concientious objectors stamping on mine: pantomime sergeants; Presbyterian whingers.
Abandon your instruments of hope all ye who enter. There\’s not a dry eye or house around here for miles.