White Grass

Separated by the fur that’s shrinking into cans and Sturridge

Flaps of crack spilling out the holes fast and crude

I split my sides listening to all of it strapped in standing

Gists of corrupted glass flaking on the aforementioned floor

 

Fisting my own earhole I feel challenged by sunlight

Corridors of sweaty skin slipping beyond a bloody cussing

Whining ruckers flicking spits out across my yard, yes mine

Nothing forever stops

 

So I became the bate rinsing meths through eyeballs

Smiles colossal, fridging purpose and stamping corporals

Devon is home now so pack it up and rack it up

White grass will be played out with fevers, tripey cheeks and steamy jars…

 

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