Talbot's profile

The virgin’s sign, no reply, the pie I ate from the bright blue sky, heading west with Captain Bligh, crocodile tears from the evil eye, it’s fucking beautiful to see bankers cry, twenty-five years in a collar and tie, I’d have got more girls if I hadn’t been shy, the television news says it’s all a lie, DUI, MFI, the Man from U.N.C.L.E and the FBI, I’d be a contender if I’d only try, I’d like to say more but the end is nigh.

When I was young these words rode into town, all tall and dark and strong and strange. They’d travelled by train from Winter Hill, to wash the dirt from Wounded Knee. I thought at one point they’d gang up on me, but I wasn’t well read so they let me be These words are still living in my TV set, though they’re vincible now and full of pain. On Tuesday they’re being railroaded right out of the town, to keep the past sweet and squeaky clean  

I was smoke and she was the mirror. together we were confused. We’re not those people anymore, we’re happy people now I would trick her; she’d make me jump through hoops, but we’re not those people now. Though on reflection she never said sorry, unlike me, contrite.  

Love woke me up in it's own private language that describes silent dinners and the plumage of night birds. How they dance for their life while screaming in French, so no one can say how they're feeling.    Love woke me up with a note of condolence; a lantern overshadowed by the glare of the sun. Refracing, reflecting the past and the present, it's new incoherence leading gently to grief.    Love woke me up to loiter the backstreets, where I sleep nor walk, understand or ta...

The song that wore a hat Was often rendered Invisible by mediocrity.   When he sang it was not unlike A bad photocopy Of a rough sketch Of an overexposed Polaroid Of an undiscovered, Great work of art.   The song that wore a hat Often wondered if He’d ever die With secrets. Something, He wished, to keep Hidden from view