Roxy

Bonny Sandy breaks my heart
no coming to couch the night
& his blade red wine

 & his thrapplejammer white wine
bonny Sandy brooks my hurt
this ae night

 ilka night
& the horns of young green wine
 bonny Sandy brakes his hart.

 Love whinges & crines. The bonny knight
in ague sweat & his ain shite, unhurt.

© Kit Fryatt, all rights reserved.

 

 nanna slut’s long close summer

Dance the lamb
                              ra-ra
                                         lamb
                                                 ra-ra
mutton hunks
It’s a shame the way we carry on 

The streets stink tonight; my skullpan’s pounding
for rain or riot, I’m not so young, scarred from mound
to sternum, childless pale citadel of bravado and competence;
though if it gets too tasty I’ll hitch my mobile home
and flit this meatpacking warehouse district
but for now I’m hanging in there, for a sniff at the grinding bliss
 the brazen looter children have, this year’s corn kings─
with sordid cold, blanket, galvanise tray, comes the morning in.

Dress the lamb
                            rare-rare
                                         
                                                     rare-rare
mutton bird
It’s a shame the way we carry on

Come sisters, these Lammas shiftless we could use, straw
 men to our hags, the blintering braggarts will fight our wars
and decorate our palaces, symbolize in their dying
everything that comforts people, and stupefies.
The estate we lost thirty grand years ago, tonight we take
 ground, we rise, inhale, we’re scary cunts, tonight we tear
spoil through locked wards, mindless, knowing that
our chicken limbs may splinter, falter; like, a freedom act
like, do whatever you want
 mate
                            do
                                              the mutton flap
It’s a shame

 

© Kit Fryatt, all rights reserved.