04-14-2017, 08:15 AM
Gas Street Basin
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath
the pink bus passing, gliding like a shoe
buoyant, from a nightclub lost property.
You drudge behind me, picking up all my
bad habits whilst staring at the cobbles.
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath
the waterbus wearing bright pink paint job
like a badge. You sport a downcast face and
hold an upturned can which dribbles on your
toes. The canal is four feet deep at best.
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath,
the pink like a bar of soap skipping on
undefeatable murk. I tow you behind
me dredging fog for miles, spooling you out
like a tape, full of private footage; proof.
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath
like we've done it before but rewound or
obtained new information, dredged up fresh
evidence to bust the roof off this thing.
I pick up pace, preempting a deluge.
Weeknight walking Gas Street Basin towpath
a bloated tramp floating like a warning.
When you climb out clothes wet I offer you
my jacket and explain that it was just
a mirage; my reflection, a mallard.
Weeknights walking Gas Street Basin towpath
the days are standing water growing rank
looping busted like a starter motor
on a narrow boat in a back-channel,
spluttering full of things it cannot say.
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath
the pink bus passing, gliding like a shoe
buoyant, from a nightclub lost property.
You drudge behind me, picking up all my
bad habits whilst staring at the cobbles.
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath
the waterbus wearing bright pink paint job
like a badge. You sport a downcast face and
hold an upturned can which dribbles on your
toes. The canal is four feet deep at best.
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath,
the pink like a bar of soap skipping on
undefeatable murk. I tow you behind
me dredging fog for miles, spooling you out
like a tape, full of private footage; proof.
Weeknight, walking Gas Street Basin towpath
like we've done it before but rewound or
obtained new information, dredged up fresh
evidence to bust the roof off this thing.
I pick up pace, preempting a deluge.
Weeknight walking Gas Street Basin towpath
a bloated tramp floating like a warning.
When you climb out clothes wet I offer you
my jacket and explain that it was just
a mirage; my reflection, a mallard.
Weeknights walking Gas Street Basin towpath
the days are standing water growing rank
looping busted like a starter motor
on a narrow boat in a back-channel,
spluttering full of things it cannot say.