Untitled 2015_05_14 revisited

No screes or scrags,
cloth capped lads.
Tarns and twelfth century stone dwellings.

No fell side tales,
dark ales.
Beauty like lakes,
dry,
stoned,
thoughts of loose endings.

No minus eights,
slate.
Pikes,
or food with a slashed throat.

The broken glass scars,
are for show.
Aquired with the glow of fruit machines,
stick em ups, 
and hold us backs.

Which side of the tracks am I from?


Somebody take thee back to the place I don't belong.