Turning, a time for killing, a time for
Small talk
Both, i really know
One face not here is hazardous
This job is better than the last one
Victorian baking ovens are history
You point, i scorch
This postcode is the same as before
The enlarged womb is strange
When seen from above
My cheeks hang heavy and
Pull on my grey silver lined sockets
A girl in green is easily obscene
See the mother for proof
See the two bin liners in each hand
Watch the solo descent
Join vehicular queues
Only to abandon them once at the front
There is no hidden magic
There is a visible agenda
Inflate and rush, rush
Inflated indeed