Boarded up, redundant, fog horning across the windows
and dust settling the sun-kissed deltas on the naked floor -
that's my shop, my outlet store.

First up - to get it out the way - the cliche bits,
the twists of candle wick and tricks of wrist,
fuzzy portraits with palettes of quips and wisps
of egg stuck firm on cheek. I recognise a lot of
this junk, once seeping silhouette in sepia now
seemingly stunted, juvenile and blown. Oh! Oh!
How lofty the grown.

The next set sticks like buttery parcels
of bacon and leek - niglets of repression,
lying in salty brine like a pickle that you 
can't quite get out from your tooth.
Here they crack and sparkle the glass
jars, the shelf hefty with the weight of
expectation and perversion, sloping
half an inch to the left. The top shelf
offers nothing but splintered fingerpods.

Finally, the gamut in the back room. 

Here, I kept the floor boards on the creek,
alert the custom to the company they keep; 
here is the real hardcore moratorium on
adulthood, the real haunt of the dusted down,
abject abstractions. I swallow them whole, often,
book-size lozenges that sit horrifyingly in the
throat of the neck.

The gag reels; I wretch.

Then romance the sketch.
Last edited by Jammydude44 at Apr 20, 2017,