Lady of the Trenches Forgetful of her own sin she walks down the aisle of self-esteem and the gunman holds her ransom
to nothing but a kinder bottle of gin. Her time flies through her teeth and yet they say freedom was never found on a velvet lawn. She says she breaks, she says she dies but she takes her time to heal.
Bruises she never wore, skirts hidden in her closet all come out at the end of the war. For peace is a slow ride on a mule that's too old and brown.
Forced a boy once, to let her go-
go in timeless time, to buy sunburnt tomatoes. She spoke of her fresh soil below and found an ant lurking in her swollen mind and so she bit an arm. She said she broke, she said she died and to no help came the gray eyed mule. Cooler walls shrieking idioms she heard she saw blue balloons in cardboard boxes to celebrate a day of highs and lows to buy the boy, a caseful of mazes.
Time flew by sooner than she thought stuck in a puddle of countless sunsets and aimless stars.
Eight Tyres Back and Front On four tyres we mix into fog
and in some beautiful daze we loose colour to turn mistakes into redemption lullabies.
Sun yellow hair faded into gray, short, weak
dissolving beams of unity, sky blue eyes shut in a grave eight feet deep and seven layers up. Everything forgives everyone, but time. Each folding minute under wet soil meeting the shore and the roots, sea salt and cotton candy,
candy, candy, candy give all a piece of you
to find you've got more candy in your glass jar. Fumeless white feathers float in fresh walls in the skin of a coffin.
Reverse on the same dark roads
time of perishing unknown to most. To see the last breath of a living is like seeing the world before it explodes. How lucky am I to miss it? Roll back.
Rolling pin, dough and meat, sweat, love, pain and joy. Life is like a dinner eaten too fast. It's a long long road,
on a short short plateau.
The great fog, now sinking in. As many cries as one might shed and as many as you might save,
there's more dew on those flowers you picked; knowing what they are for.
Then you think;- you think you do.
Lost for words, while others know how to pray.
The day you needed prayer most and you couldn't. A knot. a big arid gulp. a solemn sensation of exit.
You hug your mother, knowing she'll go just the same.
She'll run. On four tyres you get back to life,
from a semi dream, a demi illusion. Trees look browner, clouds seem heavy: but all the folks are fine and sneezy. Mind feels sucked dry
and no blood feels warm enough. Justifying happiness and comfort
with the façade of peace and light. It rained on the day she died.
Noone really knows- I think, I think;
what she thought of this life or the next. Alas, you've kept some sorrow in
and you know there's more to waste. This paralytic state of floating winds this holy water from the vastness above, diagonal, shy and clean
she bathed in, neither in soap nor in rose water. She had been someone's mother, someone's daughter, someone's wife,
someone's grand mother- someone's friend, someone's sister.
Now she's just herself, who left this chest of chaos over a week a go. I hadn't thought of writing such sentiments but death becomes uneasy in its humidity. May we all rest as she does in thoughts and treasures.
Poets of Erasmus I Ravaging stormy night and shadow sprinkled day. The poet's awake with the sound of branches' break. Still in his cardigan, with no underwear safe enough to wear. He marches from his bed of mongrels to his desk of papers mountainous. Squinty eyed and easily slumbered. His mind is a maze of flamboyance.
II Two kinds, you see… The she type on a hike and the he on a pikeFor the former is never formidable, the latter takes stance. Though very similar in shape and thought they both suffer from a thing, Called- cold indifference. Melancholy and defeat are their self catered monsters- orgasmic frames of creation. She knits alongside verses that summon. He breathes dust and ash between comas. Sweat patched bodies in flesh ribbon. Have you ever had the chance to see two poets fucking?
Unfortunate sight for those alike Achilles and Ophelia (Though something one must watch, I reckon) As their bodies rise and sink with each thistle sigh, spanking the air A pistol of petals surrenders itself to the Almighty, "he". He is such an infectious bastard from a virgin mother, no one would believe it. She never had a saviour, a mother or a father, hence her reason for self destruction. Her splendour is so hasty it's reminiscent of prison cells. Seagull lips and orchid tongues diningRipping the walls of their stomachs for just a tiny bite to indulge in. Have you ever seen a couple of poets eat? Have you ever seen a couple of poets pray or shit? I have and to tell you honestly, it must be seen.
He... My dear friend, I can tell you it's a divine painting, That of the poet in all things he does. His bottle has no bottom, his plate neither. Neither does his hat or his hearing. Sacrificing his body to despair and endless solitude in crowds He poets live amongst trees and seas.
Now, you tell me if that's not to be aspired. Their souls are made of music And arrogance is their stubborn guilt. They carry both like a necklace of beads, around their fat gilded throats. Hoping day after day, To be saved by the applause of their equally moronic readers. The stars shy away and the sun burns Their skin of flaws out of rage, red neon. The poet dies during the day as he dives into an eclipse of sorts. The day is the dead carnations of thick blanketed blood.
She... Fragile, easy natured, yet frisk and angry in her tone, Unsure of things to say and how to spill her seeds sown. Timid, Worn out, Pressing towards nurture and care, proud and for that reason vaporous. Easily sickened and in love with pity, with great taste and interest in her similes.
A strange creature that is both mischievous and obedient, Cheeky, childish, provocative and slender. She nibbles on titbits As I'm told she drinks wine to heal her dry throat. She is forgotten and said to be inadequate, Or she feels herself so in some ways. She erases herself from history. Her day and night are pestered but the men, She strives for dutifully. She hates neither, But secretly they both drown her out.
III Unlit oven, woodless fireplace, frozen bed Is a solemn death nest. Both dream of long lasting rest. Besides grass green bottles and vases of wilted flowersOnce flourishing carnations. What is alive now? Now that we are all deadOne asks another rotting body-
Fast and unquestioning, Says the peeling, ant eaten face"Have you seen my eyes and guts around?"
Disappointment
A time will come and you'll see all you had was never there. A day will come and
you'll realise you never had anything. Then you'll be silent and accept
but acceptance is futile when you got so much to say. You'll sit and write what you think but the words will come crashing back at you
because you'll know you weren't meant to write. But you'll do so anyway,
because if you cannot speak what use is it, defending. A life will pass in the subordination of words
back and forth like the waves on a wild night out in the sea. Then a time will come that all you wished comes true, at the expense of all you hadn't got.
You'll make do with what you have, and find it's not enough. You'll take a gander at the years, those passed days of strife and those jolly good days of rain, and you'll wonder what a time it's been,
to speak truth and to hear others' gambles. And coins they may be when you have them,
but when you don't they add up to mountains. As sorry as you may be,
your only sentiment will be shame and regret. And it's futile to use words again,
to explain your stance to those who do not hear
when your words are lost to you, and all is worthless. You'll think you walk on solid ground until the closest you wish to your heart comes and rips apart all you thought,
but all is smudged and you have nothing to lose anyway. Then, a time will come and they will figure
all was lost long a go and it's too late to stitch you up.
You end up, broken like this and like that one way or another, you'll be left with no tears to cry.
You'll swallow them up, and put them where they can't be found. No one will see, you'll hold them dear to you.
A day will come and all will ease, you'll think. You will wake up and answer the phone, you'll get up and eat,
you'll stand up and act,
but you'll want to stay dirty as you are,
because you'll think what's the point to it all. But you'll do it sometime anyhow, cover yourself in lather. One day a time will come and you'll forget it all, or at least you'll hope to.
Pine Wood and Cherry Red
Wardrobes full of memories, The clothes of happiness, The clothes of despair, Those worn out socks, In the corner of your blue bedroom
Leather sandals woollen gloves Cashmere jumper, cotton shirt, Lace braSins of the century of coloured paper And shrunken images Who wore whose clothes yesterday?
Wardrobes full of pastels, Peach, baby pink, piss yellowThe skirt of adultery, The dress of summer time, The trousers of control, And who is to take anyone with love?
Sonic and sad those hangers of time, And they wait to be chosen. Wooden, plastic, aluminiumRusty, broken, peelingHooks of sorts, narrow and wide, Like shelves of embarrassment
Wardrobes full of dust, And isn't the world as such? Panic and apathy paused, And those were the decades of boot wearing, Hand shaking, hat caring, pride swearing. Take us back to a land of solitude Where serenity was a pair of pyjamas
Foul Play
A swift transition from purple to lilac In gurgle to my luck Moves through my hard suck Under the bluest canes that pains Throbbing in essence of chains Drying in lament for post mortem sayings The moons dive to die In my regrets of peeling lie The cards split bi Mauve rocks under the black sin Tied to my ankle and chin It seems too far to pin. A little less is a little yellow Sprinkled urine on my pillow If time was my cure How could I stay pure Demented and grated in grey Sorest places I cannot pray. The ghost of tragedy calls
Insincere apology crawls, To white sheets lighter than fall Scarlet shattered blood's clean Leaking in grievance for thrill mean Apart, beware, truth is improvable In spinsters so easily doable Every nose has its own stink Skunk and shit both pink How can you solve a mystery sick In fiends resolving to prick
Zero Gravity: No Sympathy
The fan blew in my face round and round As I flew and landed on your skin Those memories of dying wrapped wound and sound You nor me had kin or sin In this world that guzzles blood by the pound. The warmth of the coffee cup steaming beaming Life oh life why so harsh wondrous sweet Sugar honey chocolate start dreaming. We can only reach out if we tweet tweet In this world that degenerates hope for the granules sinking. To say I have nothing is to say I have one thingTo say I have me, I have me cold as the bluest blue. Lemony sky, wild wood wilder than my zinc Silly silly one shilling a couple of hundred days a go- any clue? In this world that freezes love for shiny leggings, finnicking. Seen you, seen them looking away. Misty cystful yearnings curtaining dark shames Lateral literal understandings sway Tinting, fleeting propositions of very many dames, tames
In this world that eats courage for slim chances. Lust and puss dripping in Niagara beads One human to another, you're a scene to smoke Some know many others but I know when it leaks One lover to another we're a knife to poke In this world that pieces peace with leads. There's no breath to save no pain to bring smiles Just swinging on tires like apes waiting for rewards As they say I wait out the day that lays fortune miles Alas, they who claim squeeze tight know not many but frauds In this world that pays no dues to pristine cries.
No Fault of Ours
You curse what you crave and those creatures you live amongst bite their tongues and bleed. The burning rocks accept you, the lizards, the multi-lingual flowers. They all bow to you and even I. I, who dances naked in her mind and I who sweeps where you walk; with her chocolate hair. You curse too much for our sake. Be it from the land of corals or from skies of sexual masquerades. In tears, in ice cubes, in rain you curse, we endure. The north wind, the south wind they all make love in you- dolce dolce, and we stand up to faint; but you cut through our ankles with your chainsaw and you curse while we crawl
to your thighs, begging for mercy. That lazy chair you lie back on, the birds flying high, they all all all scream their screams. While you meet you disguise we obey, sucking our thumbs.
And you call it freedom to be, but you curse what you crave.
You crave a night out in town you crave a light to shine on you you crave a tight squeeze, but you place your slender fingers on what you can't place, phrase. 'God damn it' your shriek ponders as we speak, wonders. We strenghten our backs and your slimy spine, by sitting in our silent waiting room, we do our bit, you do yours.
Pain we have lost the sense for, insane and up the walls our mouths. These daunting chores, they are only fadind realities of gnomes. You curse what you crave, and us; a secret society of admirers, we kneel and stutter. They have brought you from the west and what a blessing you have become. As life swallows us all and chews us with shark teeth, we serve to meet our dearest end.
Your voice, husky from your pipe hot your passion, lava from spilling anguish.
You curse what you crave and you call it your choice to be. When you say the word 'fuck' it's no fault of ours, prettiest crow.
We hear, we feel, we see alll you bear astray. We're the children of Mother Theresa sent from an orb you have forgotten. In your past you were a merchant and us your beloved slaves. Nothing has lost touch, yet today; we're brethren in sin. You curse what you crave and we make do with praying.
It's no fault of ours, dear barrel that we were made to crave your warmth. You curse what you crave, when all we need is a shot of you, in our sugar syringe.
Scattered Puzzles
In the space of a few days, when trees spread further in their charms and the roads curl up; as rivers find their own beds we try and find our fates.
And what's it like to feel emptied what's it like to feel at all?
Magnificence hidden; in the space of a few days in the innocence of cuckoo songs and we leave to find sleep. Perhaps we may have been trains charging through the countryside.
Puffing in smoke, laughing in isolation like it happens, like it could be.
Just as that first kiss from a horse
the tingly palm melting in shudders; rewards are returned in licks. In the space of a few days, running free, galloping wild, searching for fate to live.
What's it like to be at home? What's it likle when it's our moonbeams shrivelling?
We sat for a few suns and wondered how a speechless person sings how life springs from it's chores how sleep could always be found, we never knew really, it's just silly.
An orchard of yawns, glazing fair. In the space of a few days, stale.
Us Three
You see the logic is, there are two of me and there's one of you. I'm not sure who made it that way, may be I just split into two in the quiet of silence, or may be you just managed to stay whole in assonance. I walk around the sun that guides us, at night and I see there are always two of me. I am trying to catch up, I guess in drops of gin you drink. Then inside one of me, there are two of you. One of you who stays up the whole night; to add sherbet and cream to my dreams, and the other....oh well, he is the other one who gives me hiccups in bowls of water. There are a few others of you, here; in me there is an I, who intends to go on a hike with the first rays of the sun, and another I, is passionate for treacherous grapes. There are two of me, for every one of you. When two of us become too much to adhere to,
I know the whole of you will say, 'just hear, too.' This is probably the most confusing sentiment; us two have written, for the third part of us; the beloved you. What's one hand when one can have three? What's one life when one can live three? I and I, we are always captured by you. You see, thats the logic, in which I hide my honey-orbits.
Black and White Sketchings
The distance whispers to you in chains, 'Fill your eyes with that sour wine. Kill your flies with that power line. Still your ties with that tower sign. ' You drive a long way, in the dark down curvy paths, through hills covered in red lillies, musk sinking in dew. In those late hours, those damp nights you roll a cigar in your dead love's name, as you drive in your mind, you fly kind. You take yourself, back to that day. The funeral you have prepared with wicker, growing thicker each day with each love sicker. You breeze through your sadness, as so many others do. You walk in the distance, out of yourself, some way of mourning your sorrow, where you can say 'I loved', tomorrow. You find yourself as the lighthouse, the ship and the captain, but you have no control.
The memory of that single mole, on her slender back, racing with razors and light, where there should be need for a fight. You drive a long way, just to escape you. You step out, you figure out, you pitch in. The distance whispers, once again: 'You have come a long way, perhaps a minor delay, has caused all this in your disarray.' You seek a place where there's no tick tock, where there's no wind, no cheap talk. So, you escape to your funeral, you drive a long way to that, too. Then you know one more song just as a fool. Life's love itself, and nothing's a sweeter tool.
Wild Oestrogen
Months have settled me dead ends, in fact it was me doing the deals, all along. Failures they may well be, and mine too; but once a fig's dry, it no longer tastes like the tree.
These oceans I've created around me, are just a part of my needs; and proud needs they may be, blinded by rage and ambition. I may have killed a few on the way; but why does it matter; I've quite a few left in my dungeon. Why not fear me, when I've got street lamps bending for me.
I have settled lovers and loves, passions and fashions. I am the man who had too much to take, and too little to give...I am the man you aspire to be, in tragedy, horror and drama, you see me and you shiver.
I am the man who could not write in his own tongue, and had written in yours and his, to appeal and to peel
those leaves of your crimson heart with that knife, you carry in your pants, loose, shrunken like my sense of respect. And some say, who know nothing of splendour and pain in a seal, as free as a man can be, I have come to be.
When drained with a glass of bourbon, I may share a secret or two, may be a glass with you, too. And if there are kids around, I expect you to watch your fire, as I am the foreskin of the society in which you breathe.
I accept nothing other than myself and my entourage... I am every man you see, I am the man you thought you were. I am a man, a man, a man... a man who has cared too much for himself, I am a man who pines. I am the man you want to be with, you're no woman at all as you rise and fall and juggle those peppers you call, 'limes'
Conversations
I I'm preparing my box, out of sponge it absorbs everything I don't want it to. You can't even attempt merciless sabotage, because these currents are just too strong. I'm knitting my box, out of me.
II I'm walking for long and with perseverence to collect shells and stones on bare feet for those hardened skins of fearing elite, in a flamboyant basket of scentful oranges. I'm walking the days of oysters and corals.
III On my death bed, I see me and nothing else, noone's tears or yielding pains of departure. My cradle of cherry wood, my blanket of mum's wool. I'm buying my corpse from taurus the bull,
I am fleeing the tipped archer.
IV On my bath tub, there's a mattress filled with butterflies and in my phantasma of sudden rises a certain stranger with a placenta suffices; all wonders in my time zone of idiotic flames. I'm letting go off the doors, above and below.
V Watching that woman, watching that life die. She's got a gold mine in that skull, noone knows. She's but a scummy cleaner, that's what some say. I clean her photographs, dust them off. I'm going to leave her when she knocks off the ashtray.
VI Sinking deeper in this forgiven land, of debts we have created a slump band. I'm sliding under, I'm being slit into the rainbow.
He, with the moustache stands and points to the sky and tells of the fortunes to forgive me.
VII My mother cried to me in grief and said 'What is to become of you?' I ignored the real question and answered 'What should have become of you is what will become of me.' She wept harder and so left, sooner her agony.
VIII My little one, she wrote her diary on her knees, told the pages blank of her dearest secrets. Well, everyone knows I'm a cheap bitch I bet you can guess what I did. Still feel so guilty, another sin in the big guy's big book.
IX Now, there's life...and all others in between.
Then there was memory, tomorrow there's celery. The housewife knows nothing to cook, reading god damn recipe books and playing harmonica hearty, stripping for her own pleasure in front of the mirror.
X Disavow, all can be, could be, must be, should be. Oh fuck me! What're you going to leave behind? And if you do for whom? It's a choice between sins and sins. Who're you kidding today, you got no grind!
The Cunt and The Hypocrite
She spreads her legs, like peasants spread tomatoes to sell. She sways her hair, like trees swinging against a peach sunset. She walks home to choose the hypocrite.
Everyone knows the hypocrite is a kind of his own, she knows he is her kind, like brutal fun in a dark pit. The hypocrite has a mouthful of rage and when it comes to his cage... oh dear queer, it's quiet as a safe. He delivers his dues on time, with the cunt as the fine.
He has known all along semi-crazed walls, that the cunt is a punt; when there is wind she will forge her way down and he will find his mind,
lingering in a glass with spit.
He has his ropes, crops and frocks to tie her thorns. She has her eyes like silver balls, to find his corns. She spreads her legs, he takes her tales. The cunt and the hypocrite, in their frugal, fruitless, formidable ways.
Honesty Box
If the honesty box had a tongue, it would be my mind. If the litterbox had a kitten, I would be glad to feed it fishbones. If you could help me out a little, and bit by bit open your shelves in moaning fiddle or guitar strings shaped like my ventricles, then may be I could face you with the lights on. If I could become priceless in your eyes, honesty would declare a thousand pennies worthless, solemn sun. Honesty box, you're such a fox, The chicken coop is your forehead scarred by pox; reminding you of your journeys South, where hot lava boils and my blood toils. If you could nap me out a little, then may be I could faint on soils, nurtured in petal. The honesty box has three flaps and it rips itself apart, like Hercules from chains. Light shines right through it, with every dimple,
honesty is flat and a swivle too simple. Honesty is where lies shy away from their bras and tuck their heads into cheesy choads. If the honesty box had a laugh, it would be my chuckle disguised as a faun. If the cookie box had pieces of glass, I would be glad to rattle it to its lethal life.
Sorrow in Nets
The fisherman took his nets down, and began to sing a song from beneath the ocean. He sang for the fish he caught, he sang for his broken manhood, he sang to rid his nets of holes.
The more he sang, the less he felt. The snowdrops in his eyes, a winter in corals, a summer in portals, he sang his song. I sang with him in my own way, with my own crooked voice and no life came to my knees and asked love.
I had a frog and a parrot. The frog on my left shoulder, the parrot on my right, I faked my path to power full-blown in the words I sang at the top of my voice. I went deaf knowing his sad song,
and wrapped my ears in his spears.
The fisherman took his boots off, staring at me as if I had to clean them. So I sang back to him in words he never read. I wrote him down, I took him down and made myself a pirate of the old town. I sang for my lost fish, I yearned for the pain in winds, the songs whispered by the ocean, washing these bones clean.
Oh fisherman, come caress my hair, come take my sad heart from its place, send it off with the biggest fish. Oh fisherman, come cut this weeping, come lift these heavy eyelids to the sky, come and be the fisherman.
Try to figure me, come take my figure. Trying to tease me, come ease me.
Oh fisherman, where do you go when the ocean's dry? Oh fisherman, why do you burn me so? Oh fisherman, why do you kill me so?
Damned Heat
Where lies the strength of me I am abandoned of all tragedy, drama and nostalgy. The walls don't come crashing in at all. In my bloody mind... lies all of me. I am a jet black crow; hovering over your head, to bicker the sound of fresh steaming news. Hundreds of you have come, in pretty words hundreds of you have left, in scornful turds and yet I have managed one thing, to love me for me and to love thee for free. Walking out on my hair is one thing, walking out on my layer is another. I have been slapped and trapped; not just by some, but now knowing my value, recently gained from your tender hands willing to give, I fast the need for patience in decaying days. Some have said, 'she is too proud to hang around, for good, she is just not anyone's cup of tea'
I slurped my sugar free lemonade and took my own path. That in itself is a clue; they might have thought me an easy prey but they have yet, not seen the predator. Tens of you have arrived, and ten more will do next year and if I let it be, one winter you might arrive again too. That's where my cunning face lies, just a reminder, on your slender finger... before you stick it up your zinger. Rude is it? Where I hide my wits, my kits and fits is where you lisp, you fist and twist. I am a foul scorpio, no games do I allow on my sands and no stone of mine is yours. I am deprived of all when I see your teeth, you undress all tangy emotion from inside out, and you rob me blind. But I am Venus and your mischief is too coy. Ask your stars, your masters how they have managed to please me for years
and they will tell you; in canto from lustful groaning, that I am Venus and I am all.
My Silent Paws Like autumn leaves I crumble, between the sour green and the living blues.
I live by the window, have made myself a hut, out of wood, red.
Like needles hanging from the chipping wood, I stared at you endlessly.
As you faded into conversations of chains, tears corroded the skin, thinnest; and I felt.
In the absence of your hidden smiles, I felt a death too close, like bleeding pins.
The longer I thought I would look, the less I thought I would yearn.
I could not earn me dignity or mercy.
I could not have self-pity.
I want to remember, I want to.. not be a beggar. I want to be a leaf alive in time's hives.
Float to me now, with your wide sails filled with hope. Come to me in fine rays.
If I am ever to be dislocated from me, than I resolve to be so by your silence.
Love's dove, love's paw can you hear this silence?
.....................................................
Iris Moonlight in the Eye
Moonlight buttocks, you have come to my sheets in cold breezes into my bone-white cottons of modern Egypt. In toned script I write my sentiments, and you blow through us like a hair dryer on speed. No arguments and all rains, this now sprinkled all on me like confetti. I am drowned in the joy of you and this joy, of you is taken from me in the blushing wind of the inn. My tongue stuck on your dreams, on the limping frog toes of mine. I am on the planet of you, in this static navy blue of the darkened astroids and I shy away, into my rabbit hole. Light of the dark, you out of all, you in the distance of the desert, you in the Sahara of my lungs, salty sand in my eyes
and wind that whirlsthe smell of butane to my nose, from the inn. The inn, which you love and admire the one I can never depart from. Your statuesque arms are an inn in which I get high, the stench of your armpits; your musk in my cologne sweat, like chilli in my eyes, as tears roll by to a lake nearbyto somewhere near where you were born, or somewhere you lived, under a broken bush or a magnificent magnolia. Whatever your skin rattles, wherever your veins are green, I lie just above, taking invalid tokes from your hair.
Ms. Followay
Focused lens, distorted view. The dancing view and its charms, vivid in misty wake up calls. The task at hand, a pore. Baby steps is all it takes, to reach and to preach. Shots and shots,
Show me button dots. Lined up many a variety flesh that flourishes,
tendons that root below, barbaric more than sinful. Squares reproduce knots, circles reproduce bow ties,
Laughters reproduce chaps, Tears reproduce rhytm. Give me one, give me all. Rise and fall...
The lure is possessed by not a single mask. Lullaby dear and queer, where all the birds escaped
The scenery clean and sleek The task at hand, a bore.
Rail Debris
Transpennine express, pushing and barging through speed limits, threatening itself, carnivorous tube. Twisted driver, twisted warden.
Flesh tearing, finding highs in the highest doses. Curdling away in his own red soil, seeking to be hunted.
Drooling over the rail tracks, like raindrops' slide through the sky, fast, presumptuously confident,
landing and taking off in slapdash, unwillingly.
Somewhere to be, somewhere to halt, with coarseness and ungrateful horsepower. Dig, dig, dig, you pig. Lacerate and blast. Transpennine express, Valentine whack.