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.
