In
Derbyshire,
the
sound
did rush
by
parody
that power and its quietus
made
exquisite workmen,
reeled the whole orchestra
touches property
to self-defence,
the
front
door
said
the roof
is lost
and the day is wet,
to give up
and
to be given
in
too grit pain
on the beach towel pavement
to inspect,
to bring closer
dying they never crease to
show they've
never went
in the face
yet living,
and
you don't always
get what
you want
only
plenty till empty
our friends
crowding to
the blood banks,
gel-ringed against a city,
our skin is to pacify
rags taste
of dogs filial pathos as
fence line defending us
from that fridge-freezer
incinerator
you that air cavity
ran up by smoke
the exhaust,
sparks to blares
fire
fed us as we
inlay the empires
water frame,
that is pace
