|Painting by Judy Sprano|
I hide well
above brackish water
in a brick bridge house
with ivied smoking chimney
in the English Lakes District
alone with my crowd of fire stoking psychosis
slurping rural textured walls with my muse
spanning the salty inlet
of my disguise.
the infusion of brandishing toxins of “The Dream,”
through my hideaway of bridge dwelling bohemianism ,
and eke an existence
to stop the world from tattooing
“sucker” on my arse.
And I speak prose into existence
in the English Lakes district,
alone with my selves
and tattoo(less) behind .
NOTE: The prompt for this “poem” was a collection of words called a wordle at “A Whirl of Wording Sundays.”