There is a murmur in the henhouse; there is talk amongst the firth. There is a pretty girl in front of me that’s lifting up her shirt – I flash the cross of old St. Andrew and then escape for cigarettes. My life is a cataclysmic series of regrets and all the Lewis to my Harris are dismissed without a thought and I’m a blue man of the Minch and there’s some defect that I’ve got where I can’t breath just where I want to and I sleep atop the waves. And there are rhymes to challenge sailors and I sleep for days and days and think of knee socks and occasions and traipse wild over moors and am surprised to wander drunkenly up to my true loves door and be turned down.


~ by perfectionatrix on October 29, 2015.

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