By | 1 July 2009

We write beneath the noise of men
in our choice of cell.
Wrath and keyboards
and fashions of cruelty.

Lies are by nature brittle
(I hope this thing)
written on your lips.
white paint is medicine.

Welfare on wheels
huskies turn on the air-conditioning.
Team Sky is winning 3-0.

Chasms of pepper
every vehicle is a princess.
I hear the nurses calling
this new aristocrat
in his cotton rags stuck
in the roaring library of fire.

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