My life is as thin
as a lager in winter,
my life is as strange
We were mid-way through some kind of quest,
when my nasal hairs grew coarse,
and though t'was still faraway,
I heard a drum's rat-tat.
I met a German woman,
her English better than my French,
but we never made our rendezvous,
what a waste of time.
They walk as in a summer's breeze,
now linked by their shared futures,
feigning joy in path-side blooms,
who's perfume guides their way.
In his dotage, Andy Warhol -
often wore white training shoes -
there's footage of him in New York,
scavenging for cookie jars.
There are no accidents in space,
each meteor is contained,
coincidence, a trick of the light,
laboratory conditions prevail.
I had new sandals, and wore them to school,
cherry-red uppers with a cream-white sole,
her dress had a pattern like a Spirograph's -
of the same coffee colour I has in my pen.