wb :

"a meeting of minds" is not so apt
to describe the pothole-ridden road of love
more like a smashing together of pies
and seeing if they stick together
and taste just as good mashed up

memories are not so much holding hands
sitting together on a bench in the park
but the sound of ground gladly receiving
the shit of birds, splattering, splat splat
and jumping up, screaming, wiping fervently
hasty apologies to no one in particular,
uncomfortably fidgeting on the way home

not the footprints left in the sand
but getting cut by broken glass
on pristine beaches, feet as marble, streaked
across the sole with a dash of tabasco sauce
and the desperate rush to hospital
to do a test for aids
just in case, its better to know, you see

but when i think of you
(i don't even need to hold your hand)
all this shit is fine by me