A rebel without a clue.

S now melted leaving damp muddy Slipping steps caked shoes and wet toes Greasy and rotten brown ridged tracks Where all clothing must be ground. Old lady misses the bus And shits herself in the rush Trousers poo splattered And we sped on road. Fear of loving Live to not love Life free of loved Clove of lovers. All this rotten Brown coffee grown Trodden these feet Mud cracking soled. Soul is not hear Just impressed their Rubbered plastic Lipid feet trudge.

G ot myself to a Starbuck's in the 'Heart' of Roundhay to send you a missive...I went for a long walk with me new flatmate today and wanted to write a poem on the change that occurs between early joyful snow and brown hell sent, self obsessed slush; writing poems in my head never works out...i need paper!!! lets try it...1.2.3 On Monday gladly the snow fell on our roofs and minds By Tuesday slowed had the traffic to zero or no go Or Tuesday it was so crisp my body rocked off a ledge or 2 Between some words were exchanged without a cuddle ensuing. Thursday we played common cold on a bus frozen glare Friday was a bouncy doggy walking heaven; sticks and eating snow Saturday we must confess zero activity on the park - good fish food. Sunday early jaunt but displaced by crowded, rotten, selfish, heavy handed brown stained virginity. This needs an aside or two... I had the best of times and the worst of times in the snow deep and cold and emoting. Tuesday T...