Testo: Piano Magic. Writers Without Homes. Shot Through The Fog.

Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock
The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice
In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs - shot through the fog; time taking care of whatever I cared about
So you are lost somewhere in here - your body, a raft,spinning towards the falls
Your death claimed me too - there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised
The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London's sky