Toilet queue poem

The pain of
Life skills.
A bar. The relentless
Upon your past,
Upon your armpits
Upon your life experience
And also dreams.
Oh leave it.
We can live without it.
Without walls,
A city wall.

Barriers. Also space.
Dream time. Aced it.
Speculation. Gratification.
Arse poems. Death divide.
Whatever. Well, here I am. A dance,r.
A pathetic space of excellence.
A spurious angel we call
Spastic. Energy. Selfish
Shut your death.

Where is the new world you
Arranged? Where is the new night
Of great. Dead. It is death.

A shining age of Unknow. Here in the the crystal nightclub. Here in the dawn of cunt. A dilemma in green, in burnt ombre. We call it fun but not fun, a scourge. An embarrassing leap for connection.

Where can you go from here? In real time. In real response time. In real Madrid time, the stinking penalties, the glamour of failure.

Hi. Hi to you, the loser of the toilet queue. A quest. An internal space. A fight. Gratitude. Disease. Anal spite. Age. Extra strong. Fabergé. An emptiness called dread, called face. Oh face. Oh bream. Disaster. Fabulous grief. Darkness. Fantasy. Space and computers. Computational ace. Computational spend. Too much. Expensive poem. Six thousand pounds at least.

The Dreamover. Dream of dank spunk. 

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