5AM Salute

5 am Salute
I Think Ziggy’s playing guitar again talking rhyme imaging New York walking on the wild side.
I fancy a stroll it’s a fine spring evening.

And I’ve kept my self busy with half arsed house cleaning.
Creatures bask in the full moon.
 Intoxicating tattered hymns are being hummed from the leopard skin trolley dollies?

Their kneeling for distraught drunken jockeys flustered by the extent of behemoth hedges they’ve leaped.
 Throw on the parker and en route to shelter.
 Thirty six, dour and negatively horny,   

Few dollars in the bank, I lean and drool, the swagger of Liam Gallagher and clean my shiny Excalibur.
Indulge in the kindness of strangers.
Merging of unstable behaviour.

Shake the snow globe and set titillating tasers to stun
I talk to the luscious Lucia. Tell her to skip the small talk and let’s get to marinating the pork

My presentation all but a dumb quirk my execution spewed pretentious that comes from oil filled endangered creek.

Lucia considerers me flippant, freakish withought a hope.
She returns to her posh rugby fan with blonde locks and a chin that could hold six pints.

I lay this dog to die and meet some more familiar faces.
All the venues are familiar.
Avast the putrid fog of masculine sweat, the desperate air of shitty puns that drags and caresses us in the arm pit of jack’s sick giant.

None of our jokes make any sense and were ducking and diving into primitive offence.

5am salute
The proceedings of the evening are unacceptable and the horror must have me in chained.

The lights are blinding.
Moral consciences is a corpse on the carousel unwinding.
Papa wants to pretty new current contraband.
If I could describe the rest Charlie Bronson would light my fag.

Woke up next day lying on the wing of a Heathrow aeroplane.
Without my trousers.
And several tubes in the near regions.

And now it comes to this.
Prison showers and a Glaswegian mans kiss.