Thistle

There it is the old derelict, the crack addict of floral attitude
of the purple florets coloured like the veins on the nose of
the blooded streets, and reflected gorse green
of the project housing doors, subject to Transatlantic shove
in semantic dissonance, in fact the corbie council
estate, where the likes of us and them, crow over the
language, be it low or high Scots; there is a funereal
interlude; where bones turn to chalky dust and bin
bags are full of guts and rude hopes, they represent in fill,
several generations of love, who in pathetic grey squalor,
stemmed from the reject region, where the reservation
of deprivation is not shy; where the pricks pin-point
moments of lucid dreams, of being a rose, owning a tudor
house with rock-star expanse; then with the Mel Gibson
counterfeit impaled on the following hit, a fucking lost
Jesus Christ, in the wilderness of the concrete forgetmenot
patch.