Chris is a cunt face

Chris is a cunt face

We drink energon from a caraffe,
place a piece of poetry steak in the middle of the sitting room
and crawling on our knees, line up, to take Olympic line up champs
and the watch the fucker bleed.

Luke’s got a TV agent
and everyone agrees
that the hill we said looked like a bad day in the distance,
will stay that way.

Tim tells Lizzie that he had one of those dreams
where they were running through fields
singing ‘love lifts us up where we belong’,
and everything was sherbert.

At night we walk out to look up at the sun cups,
plan plot lines for Fat Dracula and Porn Moon,
see neon constellation lines from
‘Johnny Ball Reveals All’
flourine lighting up the sky in letters.