I don't know what I'm thinking.
Deep purple, a little black and a perfect figure
And your [bad word]  I don't believe a word you say,
Picture postcard to [bad word] 
At Windsor Cafe, here with the tea scalding me through,
Singeing my skin, singing; singing in the drizzle;
And the pidgeons, incense the wreckage of amusements long gone.
How are you taking this? Skin warm through fat brick
Wasp, nettles stinging above our heads.
Everytime my coat is a blanket.
I'm not sure what you think of me now.
And the wine, red and white, flashing on and off like blood flying under the skin;
And the noise of it all, clamoring in my ears.
I clench my teeth around cigarettes, and the duvet that's not my own.

I feel there must be something behind this; peel, peel the layers away,
Scarlet surrounding me. Flesh, bright white against the back
The smell of the canvas draws me in; touched, touched by the movements springing under the skin,
Words surround waterfalls, but washed away,
Trace my spine, undulating, and I flinch away.

I feel there must be something behind this; peel, peel the layers away,
Scarlet surrounding me. Flesh, bright white against the back
The smell of the canvas draws me in, and I am touched, touched by the movements springing under the skin,
Words surround waterfalls, but washed away,
Trace my spine, undulating, and I flinch away.