In Your Idiosyncratic Ideals.

Who’s going to fix that? Are you?

Fix it will you. Fix it. Fix it. Fix’t.

It’s not broken, don’t you worry.

Dirty little girl aren’t you, rolling and rolling.

Burn or pierce? Same trip either way. Dirty little trip.

Turning your fingers. Cased in your blackened, bitten nails.

You’re filthy. Hiding in the backstreets, sucking deep.

A small white puff from your lips, blowing hard. Just filthy.

Round and around and around and around.

Spewing and spilling, tilting luminescence of fortuitous revel.

A spiralling fall or a swirling raise? Filthy.

Just filthy.



So I sit in the shadowed undergrowth pulling out blades of grass in large clumps, kneading the moist dirt beneath my muddied knuckles.