November 5, 2015 by jeliwobble
I swallow marbles of melancholy.
The colour of dispassionate ire, woven through their esoteric centres.
They seem as if they should taste,
of orange, or lime, or grapefruit.
Instead, there is nothing but the vague aftertaste of dark afternoons,
spent watching black and white Ealing comedies,
and eating bourbon biscuits,
dipped in too sweet tea.