Roughly as poetic as a bag of smashed arseholes.







Scribble back.


Monday, 22 November 2010

8. Reach

Futility – I know it’s true
In trying to reach out to any of you
From my melancholy blues
And my self-conscious abuse
Trying to recapture what was, or is
Or what could have been
It’s still so strange
To see you reaching back to me
Run, child – or stay
I doubt it matters anyway
We are waiting for the end
Side-by-side on the beach

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