Just as he refuses to leave
he hesitates with a kind of blissful leaden monotony
the head veils a more serious question
there's a shame attached to it
between his legs everything looks like a machine
compared to the
stormy marble fireplace

There's that disappointing British reminder
the dreaded beast of insisting on disappointing millions
with a smile
tour, but not Trade
horror was pretty
we talk about the constant reminder
that my genitals seem radiant for a man in torment
the horizon tilted to one brief gesture
threw down the future
We both agree Margaret Thatcher will probably rejoin
the illuminating collection of young people across the world

Gary Glitter could almost kill us all
Now he presents existence as if nobody would have cared a lot
I thought it might be the same comfort
of a favourite armchair smell between his legs
pain in the collection of the soul
a vast section of it seems religious
Its pleasures are all the more deliberate and lyrical
they embody the parting sexuality the far more natural kind do possess
their rapidity makes them bouncingly depressive
I suggest as a plea for history
turning something absolutely constant to
a magnificently boring human being

British home of living sexuality
exists within the relatively moronic attitude that all human life
looks better and laughs more on the edge of a cliff
stormy marble fireplace

having just spread either side
romantic debilitating curse of
All the great pop stars
melodramatic hands throughout the known universe
anything on these shelves
His worst quite fitting result of such an intrusion
implies that at least half of these people had lived euphemistically
total sixth form quality trails away so magnificently
I need only glance at this book to know what to do
stormy marble fireplace

nobody ever cared worse