Sunday, June 27, 2010

Camping on Parliament Square

It’s hot. So fucking hot that my frigid pubes have gone rigid - from crystallised salt in the solar assault.
And it looks like the sun has scared all the clouds to the other side of the planet,
Hiding behind a pebble between stars. And for once the sky looks clear, but as always, the air doesn’t:
So thick and translucent, sitting on a wobbling horizon.

I’m sweating.
Trickling, from my sobbing scalp.
Then saturating filthy hair and a detour round the eyebrows to run down a flowing frown.
I’m sweating from the beating hell of nuclear fussion, that kills in hot blood.
At least this is how I rationalise my steaming skin. Grilled, BBQed, Burnt.

And smoking should be wetter in summer, cause the water runs through me,
From my pores to my paws, like a seeping sieve; in the tents that turn
Into unofficial, sopping, saunas.

No comments:

Post a Comment