the chimneys in Manchester spit fiery plumes
to the passer-bys, the Mancs, the Kosovans,
Czechs, Droylsden idiots, scallies, dealers, drunks
and stealing-the-tops off milk-bottle-kids.
it's a long list of die-hards
in the wool of lambs, slaughtered on a regular basis
on Friday nights through to Sunday before the bells peel
10 to go, to their various places
of worship and abundant hips and lip service
then there are 10 of her fingers
typing this dirge
hoping
that the shouting and screaming
in her bones
quietens
to a faint rub of saw and vehemence
that violates her own tongue
her growl returns
& fire in her groins becomes so hot
that the next man?
if ever
there may
be
one...
& ever be there
will burst into fucking flames
at her touch
and the die-hards will cheer
the Kosovan hookers will parade up & down Silverdale street
wearing nothing
but
her smile
Adding your comment:
xx
not really gary, it's trying to get warm again
