Flowers by Gracie Bawden

The summer of ‘07 was hot with youth. The old oaks’ new leaves danced limply in the lazy wind. Even the sea was thick with heat, its waves rolling over each other in a slow and smothering embrace. An old Bush radio blasted out the Arctic Monkeys' “Fluorescent Adolescent” which cut harshly through the air that lay stale between Gemma and Bailey.
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When we have gorged ourselves
on this banquet of roses
and licked clean
the golden dishes—

And when with cool brain
I have willed my body
to levitate,
head dangling like dead siren—

in Windmere
here we have a word
what turns the doors from out our way,
that we might sell great plans.
GREAT STEAK stench ed plazas adorn the path to capital commissionary gain. may stand if only so in submission
to our own great GREY THOUGHT.