When surface from a four day crash, bluebottle gobbed, and hear the children call you maggot mouth, and rise to find they've roped your guts, so fall you jessie. They crown you king cantaloupe and gob you up a synapse bomb, so now your hooting leathersnake, not clocking you've been prammed, to serenade the door of your ex-wife, clocking glares of ice. Then find you’ve wandered back to school, and frit the squabs, and now here comes a teacher with a copper. And when dancing, lost in techno trance, arms flailing, gawky bez, then find you snagged on frowns and slowly dawns your jazzing to the bleep tone of a life support machine that marks the steady fading of your day old baby daughter. And when midnight sirens lead to blue flash road mash, stretchers covered heads and slippy red macadam, and find you creeping neath the blankets to snuggle close a mangled bird, hoping soon you too will be freezer drawered. And when walk to work, all swig faced, six months since you clowned it up, and old friends cross the street, and no one pays you any heed except the dung-breathed men, who often now will pick you up and van you to the fens to wrestle pigs. And when shakey head at local paper story of a crime git, then look again and see that he is you, this long lens shifty bugger in the park. When every phone call destroys your life, but the phone aint got a bloody plug. And when waking, wonder where you are, only to find the rest of you is asking where you’ve gone. Then welcome, ooh arrested for copying dogs, welcome in Dev... Dev.... Deeeeeeeeeeev.....Ddeevv. DdddddddDddddddddevv.
Messing With Modes
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