September

Every suntan tells stories and the shape of the white snitches fat men in tropical climes

And you tell me you've been fucking King Creosote

And that I should've known for a while


Watching the starlings as autumn draws in as they make ghosts across London Fields

And I would've moved out there to be with you

I would've moved out there for real


Saw a choir of golden angels wearing matching rucksacks

As they obscured the view to your train

And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm rambling here...


Just want to see the way the skin splits round his bones

And the gurgling head in your lap

And the arms of the crowd as they pull me away

And the mud and the blood in the grass


When we scraped our bones together we got fire...