The Unspecial Ballard Of Me And Her by Ford Dagenham

am I an unfree fucker,
some tangled flower
or
torn feather
flitting over the motorway files,
only
tethered by taut twine
to the times
I tied it to?

am I the dull dust,
or the dead cells
cheap and nesting on the dancing needle,
some clot of age
that
noses all knowing
round
a demon 45
I found
on the floor
in 94?

are you a blue wind
or some
busty librarian
disguised as billowy night,
blowing in white
where my weird heart bellows black
describing
the day,
her bust,
and this night?

are you that festival dream
or some
horrible fate,
a feast
a feckless last offering
like
wolves fucking at the gate
or
ripples ripping and tearing
time back
like a blink
one epic decade late?

am I in a
Fucking Frenzy
panting
fit sweat
or painting a picture
of wet fingers
and
warm fondles
in the hazy shades
of a
february unforgot?

am I healthy
or some
hairy dog
thats matted, drooling
denying hesitant dread,
a gang
patrolling,
its deperate terminator handhold
on my
terrible hunger
on my
horrible anger,
thats gatted and degrading
in my head?

are you a lovely taste
some lady
a delicate paste
of the legend of laboured TV,
the celibate lies
laid on thick;
lust,
dry as dust
and calibrated waste?

are you thinking of me
as I am thinking of you,
tall mad
wooly bad
silly-sad
obsessed, overfed
always going gradually
to bed
to nap crap
then; lost...
slowly going all
Old Testament
alone?