Gold Chain, Gold Chain
A can of special brew filled with her piss,
rolled under seats, splashed his heels, laces,
you cant hit her, gold chain. a wet look stare
at a fat girl, a fat girl and her friends.
Toby tyke, on a orange peel arm, and
a library card, her jasmine tea lights,
she remembers standing by the ATM
with yellow fingers kneading ribbed polyester.
Sticky 6am, she awoke smothering
a mobile phone, the news is mixed, painted,
sleeping with it and raping a memory
of you, kissing her full on the mouth, ghosts,
a track of golden chain by reading glasses,
another link, his neck, green from the brass.