Writing in Pictures

Listen to this infectious-downtempo-earworm and read a mad picture-poem?

I will

Neon blue wrists, orange hair, a fake mole, a rather tight halter and a caustic tongue
I will haemorrhage each time I see mediocrity.
Marzipans and soufflés after dinner, in winter, beside a fire, under a quilt.
A green cat, named Pat, a little fat, but one that doesn’t eat rats.
Beer and beef steaks, well done, with greens, not on a bed of cabbage.

A Middle Eastern prostitute and her suitcase appear mysteriously at the Charles De Gaulle airport. Chain smoker’s in China town play SNAP, as the stock exchange crashes.
They know me in the ghetto, I am their private celebrity, and I will drink tea and eat frozen custard with them.

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A paragraph of lies in Times New Roman contaminates my inbox; I ignore it and continue packing a crate of Lebanese teacups.

 

“Ogre and ogress married in a rushed ceremony this morning, world press in a tizzy”.
“Pregnant Mother gives birth to baby Jesus in a dirty, smelly, old, dank shed”.
Brandied pears and Pinot Griggio, loud laughter, careless conversations and a morning after. White Musk, Patchouli, Olive and Satsuma on my skin, in my bath water, across the road in a shop. Abused full stops, battered commas take shelter in a forest, far away from greedy pandas.
Grey billboards, unused petticoats, a sunset party all on a Monday in Cairo!

 

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