The elephants are trooping stoically round the drapery concealing your filthy bedchamber but I don't mind cigarette stained mottled wallpaper This place is a crippled b n b run into disrepair by smoke-soaked desperate lonely men. maybe the wiring is dodgy and I'm here alone for the first time the peace of three sedatives the tide of cocaine-clenched intense waves receding and laying bare a drenched shore of sea glass and lesser spotted treasures. we dont need luxury but why is the the world ordered by principles of cruelty and exploitation maybe the bedsit has a lingering aroma of despair but your few outré possessions that ancient dresser we hauled from the other side of town I opened it tonight and found a treasure chest greater than that of Jeff Bezos' grotesque wealth How they reduce human life and love To exploitable commodities That's not love Love is the richness of smelling Your old band t-shirts Choosing one to wear and reclining in this bedsit hovel Cocooned in blankets awaiting your return. They think we have no power we're rats to use or mites to crush if we don't comply But they will never know how this feels to gorge on love alone we'll find the depths of our souls In a cavern of blue-john stones. fuck it, marry me.