spent on chalk farm chicken
with varicose veins
the sky is dark blue
in the type of winter
you wade through
In my hand is a cold can
of mirinda, the poor mans
fanta, but i love orange soda.
The bus comes slightly ahead of me
so i sort of jog and quietly hide my fatigue
It's more of a rumble and my head rattles
on the window. The light blue bus going past
hampstead heath musics played from behind
my seat I'm writing about london clouds
then throw an evening standard away from me
the front cover was about the casualties of haiti.