At art.
In an end of yard pervert’s wristblurring fervour,
The parlour’s palatable urges never seemed further before.
My mortar-guarded softness is girdered, furtive and cautious
Twenty gruelling stairwells up have I stuck
An unsubtle sign. In bold print, font size 25:
Only twenty storeys more until you’re a fifth the way to the topmost floor.
A sugarbowl full of rotten, coreless teeth,
Old sugar memories.
At arms, to wars which never cease but calm
As manics do between bouts of incurable madness.
Alchemisland 
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