ALL THE X’S SPOKEN:
Machine growling, White stick walking, the coming & the going
of the mice. You know me now, what I like, flat-foot slapping,
carrying the perfume of a man in suit. You did it over night,
leaning into shadow, sunlit mouth, carrying a fragile thing.
All the X’s have been counted, well at least enough, the circus
put back in it’s box, promises tempered with reality, how many
times? Repeat chorus, fade.
Going back to Hawkwind, Space Hippies underneath the Westway,