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A misinterpretation of intentions

by Johnny Crimson

It was on crumbling old Barnaby Street
where the Thames met the bridge
like a knife stabbing shadows in a vicegrip.

You were a sentimental Molly
with that mirror jacket and chains
pushing your breasts to your chin.

We smoked nails in the moonlight
and listened to The Smiths
as the clubbers rode by
on their punctured bicycles.

Your hand brushed my quiff
and I grew quite disgusted.
A normal reaction
for a boy with no attachment.

A normal reaction
for a boy with no attachment.
A girl held at ransom
for a dowry of old diseases.

With our backs on the hill
we spelled out our dreams,
our fingers,
making letters in the sky.

It was here where you stopped
and suddenly got off,
said "the road isn't clean, and your dirt's not for me."

This road isn't clean
and your dirt's not for me.
There's too much release
if your plan should succeed.

'I am not a sexual being.' is tattoed on my forearm,
but I suppose you missed it.

I suppose you missed that.

04/17/2013

Posted on 04/17/2013
Copyright © 2024 Johnny Crimson

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