But the river ran bubbling and squealing
and I thought I understood.
And the fairy boat, the
big boat, booped and sang a tune.
And we all laughed and drank whisky and
we all sang and made love
in rooms that smelt of burnt chickpeas
and burnt wet timber wood.

And I always think back on those days,
days those days that
I think back on.
When blood stayed behind skin
and hearts beat beat and beat their regular beat beat,
but only on those days that I think back on.

Those were days, days in the past
that perhaps we should think back on.
Back to the beat beat,
the beat in the heat on the boat that we stayed on and drank on,
making love on singing songs on.
When blood stayed behind skin.
Only perhaps if we don’t
skin is easily ripped and hearts so easily stopped.

And a thought presents itself:
Memories cavort in empty heads
Whose eyes are too fixed on the future.