Licing Home 1

Home is overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens,
t/ green fuse that drives t/ weeds thru t/ roachtone rust.
Home is an old stoner blazing up f/ 1st time in a wily,
Bach's Air on a Gstring rastabillyskank stylee.
& other stillborn whimsy in ascension daze
of velvet donuts & cobalt monoxide boas,
sinuously flailing to t/ top of mi old
pleasuredome (ex-ape apex I can't think off right now),
l/ my house clearance oeuvre casting about 
f/ sickness footnote from a psychagogue
worth a deathbed namedrop.
But Afagdu beats Argus everytime, so before 
pretty Paranoia flutters her abyss of eyes,
flyjars my headspace
amongst t/ shelfloving cylindered sniggers,
canned scopaesthesia,
this little poet went whitey whiney ennui
all t/ way... Back to life, well t/ Past, home
to my 1st song: 

'We are t/ stoned skyvers, we fly l/ t/ spiders
summer soughs walloped off their gossamer.
Drugs & jobs are much of a muchness,
you can't go home till it's 1/2 past tomb.'

But that 1st broken home 
of teenage drossomer
was a paperhouse skinnedup by a walking long pig
on tonic sol-fa-ing sinkhole
foundations, my head in t/ redlionlane 
of that white dwarf wolf, 
Indifference. 
Who blewout my lucky stars l/ Emphysema,
thunderthiever from muscular Nietzsche memers
& wheezers who are dreamers of kneesers,
1 last memoryfoamparty in Ibiza.
Big bad meh
left my own homing howl hanging f/ all time,
not worth while f/ a wolf to windshear
sheep of home off my loner's fallow.
No shadowy plot, just a plot of shadow, any
future
dream 
home
razed far more fundamentally than simply at t/ foundations.
I am a walking long shadow, talking to t/ long shadows
of walking home late longago.