Our Man in Belize, dave delacroix, No:76: POSH on POSH.

 Our Man in Belize, dave delacroix, No:76: POSH on POSH.

ALL THE TWANG, BASS RIFF, stuttered drum kit SHAKING, Mic. stands swaying, alternate, BELA twistin and all that GYPSY; a million concerts in your INNER DELIVERY: the SONG? Paper-Pen/Cellphone/text?

All that SMOKE MACHINE, beads, heads-up GROOVY, or YAWK, BASTARDS, suck the floor ya walked IN on? COOL?

 So hard to be Cool, poor? The PLAYERS got daddies Credit Card annexes, FORESKIN-extended? When YOU R in the gutter HE/SHE gets a LIMO out to the Shire. Henley-Regatta. They, lifestyle, don't drown. Paddle?

ALL THAT "Stranglers", the GIG, POSH on POSH, that "the Subterraneans" which might lend U a tampon or smoke to remind U that U really ARE a "belonging", a kind of:  "Eh can I borrow your comb whilst we suck some DICK in the mirage of ALL THAT TWANG", that dissipation....?

PHWACK-PHWACK-PHWACK::Scarlet bottoms! Some ARISTO who decided to piss off his/her "Landed-Gentry" for a Season of "Fuck-Mater-Pater" and then there's YOU, wearing fashionista "cast-offs", looking for a crib on an English, cold Winter's night with only fellatio as a recourse on the King's Road, lowest Chelsea? No Hillary! No Stanford UNI oasis?

ALL the TWANG, the Judas songs resonate your Tomorrow, and tomorrow, perhaps on the Fulham Road? A Tattoo. A le recherche du temps perdu. A FUCK YOU to your yesterday. Just Posh on Posh.

c.2021, dave delacroix, Kings Road, Chelsea, London.