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


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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