I Guarantee Sun on Sundays

Heaven and hell smell, it's
well to dwell on the death knell, but
it's swell to bell-clang with lung men
though we shout and hang the delirious gang,
we think, stink and rinse,
drink pink fluorescent mixed things, me and him
big pig bins and thin winnings.

Cranes build high and we sky-sigh outside in the
dry warm blast of mai-thai soaked vermilion,
the million clicks that make a clock, smiling
walks around a block the rocket stopped to mars,
money-mad for moptops not marvels,
the fancy foreign cars that park remarkably politically
and the loanshark harping for men desperate to make a mark - into this tank of fish we swim in day and dark,
it is murky and lark-laughable, jerking, rustling, expecting
affable but facing disaster, able only to chew, unable to do or undo - this, sadly, is you.
Boo hoo boo hoo, you get what you choose.
And me? Woo hoo - time is chipping me, ripping me, spitting at me, sticking me in a memory glue.


All I've done so far's unscrew; I have so much more to brew, but the recipe's in flames, I'm distracted by the dames, I'm a crutch away from lame and I haven't got a clue.

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