She says

You’re drunk.

This is a thin line to skate

dressed in love

swimming in tender frills.

A whale of a lie swallows the question

possibility magicked away

Shenella burps him better.

Her wide foreign forehead refills

He’s an angel

He offers gum, keeps her hand in his

Discusses the domestic

Tantalises with dreams of tea in bed

in lieu of

He woos her

English charm

English hair

I imagine it frozen on some Nazi landscape

Heavy boots for kicking

Heavy coat for fashion

He blow dries his hair!

Self-damning sir.

Pickled in gratiation.

She’s his bit of rough, Shenella

His bit 

Scrunchied Shenella she

works and he doesn’t


how to live


Your tongue’s too good for his

Lick a different stamp for postage


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