It’s sand in the spine of a biography, twenty years on
It’s missed morning swims and fake marketstall watches
It’s the same soup every night ‘con tres naranjas’
It’s surprise legroom on a plane
It’s Milner Court Miller cans, ringpulls flicked into dog-shitted
broken glass grass
It’s stained shirt swaps and the inability to stop laughing
It’s a hangover walk into town post beans on toast gutrot
It’s 2 for £22, the worst deal of them all
It’s those harmonies: Blonde-kissed lyrics, Sydney at night, the fireman cut-out held high
It’s my signature on floorboards in the same room where I asked ‘who looks the best?’ out of the four fresh-shaved faces on the back of the lyric booklet
It’s Honfluer, massive sidies
It’s a longdoomed duet I so wanted to work

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