Magda Knight


White noise. Those yummy guys,
those suburb-bound sailors of the night.
Sunk deep in static, they submerge
my cottonhead in psychic wax.

Secret measurements of love come hushed,
cosy ghosts talking in parenthesis.
German bike automatic. Fog patch forty degrees.
Superslinky talk brings me to my knees.

Limbo men in cravattes drawl in maritime,
something supplementing sleep.
Hissing surf drowns the radio set.