Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Matt Fallaize

No point caring for music

The flat bay as always
Lights are always strung
It’s always dusk
The park has always just closed
They’re always dead
They’re always not coming back

It’s always d minor
It’s always a flag at half mast
It’s always a procession
It’s always the chat
The shit beer and the chat

It’s never sunlit lawns
It’s never a full chord
All four fingers
Tightly tuned and ringing out
All the dead bowing
Waiting for applause


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