fizzy uterine milk that we drank of together
warm as jam sandwiches all day in Fit Sam's handbag,
the nourished collective we is.
there is a road near Trafalgar that goes nowhere
and i see you from time to time Allen Bramhall,
45degrees to yr red tanktop with Mass sun atomic
fucking up yr eyes,
and I see you on TV Allen Bramhall,
in the bluepaper policies that teach obedience to collage
and to never question form,
and once I even saw you in a wisp of smoke,
the fractions of subdivided reality elusive
but I was far gone with dexies
and burnt out on gins
yelling out yr poesy
in the concrete backgarden,
i saw i see
and i will see you
later, Allen Bramhall.
