By Paul Dylan
Pink, blue sky of College Road
tunnels through my mind,
rows of houses joined together
as a modern retro paradise.
Walls are down when we are just ourselves.
Without rent, blade, you’ll slice a grapefruit,
show me inside. Babe, my tranquil eyes
stream over your back like twilit rainbows.
In the dark tunnel of blue faces I hear a podcast
on boreholes and the imperialist world system.
When you slip in the echo of tricolour // why
colour, know what they told you by the bay window:
There’s more than glass between sudden
raindrops and supermarket roses, there’s
drunk philosophers and physicists singing
outside lies within and belongs with you.
