Without Crosses

Empty blister packs and inner thigh rash That lonely butterfly with half a wing Spinning into William Morris flower print curtains The remaining light of a bad evening Making me squint more than your new atmospheric black metal project Sunken meaning, dead grass Parasitic behaviour and the smell of old records Online presence for small businesses Who owns that fucking dead dog? ... It still barks Bloodstream into void, into Hollywood Without crosses or branches or Victorian teeth The way my cat looks at me, like I look at ingredients on shower gel bottles in a different language It's that. Just that.