Channel 906
Floundering like a lost cod at the lowest ebb
I set crab legged in
awe of a mass of thigh and writhing buttocks
mute
I cannot hear a thing
yet call the number flashing red on screen
I wallow in high tide
the terms on conditions last for eternity
then a seductive smoky voice
asks me my name
I say Mike from Bradford
she asks me what turns me on
I tell her
anything unnatually uncomfortable like this
Surburban escape plan
Three hours of sunlight
its getting worse then Sweden
with
frost, petty shivers and condensation
and a timid grey skyline not helped
by TV's sunny disposition.
Smiling newsreaders shuffle paper
at the end
of a chilling broadcast
mourning the loss of more innocent lives
I could settle this all over a game of cards
and a glass of stiff
Fred Astaire keeps dancing long after the vanishing
limiting us to a
web of memories from
misanthropology to madness to the realisation
of
many wasted hours you'll never get back
Drag him
Insides they crumble like Lincoln cathedral
after a crowd of cowboy
builders
fuck up the scaffolding and the tower comes crashing down
in a
spiral of brilliant destruction
Me and her watch all this holding hands
the commotion continues for
an hour without going anywhere,
when i'm with her who I will not name as
the time is not appropriate
my stomach it drums like Keith Moon in an
agitated pit of fire
fuelled by vice tempered with caution
without her I am everything
free and safe
the world is mine and
I cherish it all.