Men Are Hungry For The Return To The Womb.

We tried to find an obsession

Blue sky walls, rocking cots,

Men of good conversation

Or stories of the tunnels that run under town

 

I was busy

Writing Bukowski’s dreams by lamplight

You are here

Evenings turn to beery bar, authentic night

That word shouldn’t exist

Fart chamber bus, methane, Co2, Suffolk Orchestra journey, goo

I grow up and brood, like most men halfway to sensitive

 

Give me your obsession

Whilst I’m forcing in and out,

Growing and brooding.

I picture yolk-coloured flags

And watch the guy follow me through the door,

Which for some reason I do not hold.

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