it bleeds dry sepia blood like cheap postcards

which we devour like burning chocolat chaud à l'école.



two chalk-white panadols are remaining in

the cutting, green-splashed foil with round, plastic indents.

i psychologically need more; my plait falls out.



plain, fluffy baguette and a green apple settle on my lips,

i can't follow any purple brick roads because they look too beautiful.

reading puberty blues in a park amidst drug dealers and police

sparks a thrill in me, yet a navy dull one.



waffles, rum and raisin icecream and nutella

leaves a bubbly trail of oil in my stomach,

i can feel it simmering in all its yellow fat.



fromage slices of la lune are faux in our lights,

a musical house burns down in an orangina rage.

there is a week on the calender and tears slither in my chest.

written: Wednesday 29th September 2004, 10:30pm.