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Wednesday, 6 May, 2020

French toast is not a skull upon the fire,
Wipe up the blood, check Watson's brought his gun,
This file contains a photo of a nun,
The spider weaves her dream of Warwickshire.

Five empty bottles silently conspire
Against me, but I'm hid beneath the sun.
Lord Byron's testimony has been done.
The fairies bide their time behind the wire.

I'm scattering the ashes of the day
And rolling up my liver in the bin,
A spell against insane utility.
Keep meaning and the builders far away;
A secret ink to expiate all sin
And hang unspoken papers on the tree.
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