sometimes it is dry
as if stepped back
to 1975
from a village nestled
valley side
on chapel outing
itchy backed coach ride
sometimes it’s effusive
all ‘77 punk bluster
arrogant abusive
yet coherent in
its narrative
with arguments
seductively persuasive
nowtimes though it’s coasting
mired post millennial dankness
grey verse in a drizzling
where my petty ego
sits bleating
and I’m convinced
she just can’t be listening
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