The light turns off.
The curtain railing snaps and the fabric
comes down,
forgiving the ugly grey sunlight,
it lets her in,
and so she comes.
She smears her pale cheeks all over my table,
my books, my wardrobe and my skin.
Now as I take a small lake of water,
and let the liquid fall across the mirror,
I stand pale too, and asking of what I am doing,
as I let my new friend burn circles through my eyes,
of green and yellow hue.
The spotlight should lie around the painting,
not on top of it.
You have to reach out into the dark to find,
something really interesting.
Bad things are happening all over the world, and journalists are never a part of it. What you read is written by the kid who over-hears. I heard a gunshot, but yet I didn't, because it wasn't in the paper this morning. Therefore,
London
is
pronounced
safe.
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