In-between made up cities and their imagined sunsets,
under a cherry blossom canopy, slowly undressing,
by a big door with the Devil's prick as a knocker,
in amongst the spiraling flies and the cries of reunited flocks,
the spot where the rumps dent the ground, due to be filled with cement to mark The Deadbeats of Plymouth, just like the Beatles; just like the dead.
Smoking nutmeg and listening to music reviews, guided tors and intimate photographs, two long-haired rockers telling tales, and a sobering musing of a manual titled, 'how to make impressions'.
On the wall behind where the graffiti reads, 'Julius Caesar was a dick' grow ears of moss, capturing every word as it erupts out of lips and back into the cosmic, carefully scribing them to preserve a moment of recalled moments.