Friday, 25 October 2013

Sunsets In Cellars

Black disc, the heart of the music.
Cut with precision. A mutilation.

The white dog with brown ear stares into the brim.

The witch's hat. Left here and picked up again, it nearly being that time again.

Silver stares from the machine, it's elegant lines. Modernity when the word was first coined. 
At some time it must have pounded. I sit directly opposite slowly drawing what I can.


Fairy tale porridge fills this room.

Bolt in my throat. I tighten it with a willing spanner being my own worst enemy.

A row of fires in metal hearths.
Sunsets in cellars as we pleasantly drift.

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