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Heatwave mashed (Axel F re-jam)

Alright mate how’s it going? Melting. Sun is truly hideous. It’s just heat no Facebook profile. Are you here? Brixton? Stockwell? Vauxhall? Don’t mind if it’s sunny but this… Rubbing my face in the binbags, summer whiffs. I was like: paveslab-woah. That’s what I do in summer. What is that unearthly cackle? Fish lain on crushed coffee. Duck into silver pouch. Sainsbury’s Continental. Whiff of Crème Egg, for, like, forty minutes. Sainsbury’s Continental. Yeah, smells like mental patios. My redface like an atlas. Poignant brutal light. Drake like late-season whisperings. He’s on his phone. Coldwater melting. Page-short dictionary ridiculous. Manipulate the forget – comes with a catch. Barbed gelatinous atmos districts. Cold easter thaw-cabinets. Keep doing it. Duck into the reoccurring territory. Sit down and build a new memory out of hailstorms. Are you here? Are you Drake? Smelling the bulk of summer. Trafficking flip-flops. Baked in our groundwork, warm plastic forgetting. Brimming my texts and waiting. Drake sunk in jammed slump. Basketball-player-tall quests. Stretching out the shadow version. Mealdeal soupy silks. There’s my flatmate. A collaborator. This candlefisted chasm, like an inside-out Lambeth. Got to make a change. Skimmed months floundering. Trafficking meal-deal coffee. Thickening noontime. Don’t mind if it’s sunny but… athletic-looking dog-walkers? Neuronal tonic slabsided. Glimpses of memory. Glimpses of Brixton bike fuselage. Whiffs of the storm in my head. You know that smell. Drake palpable. Spent all cube-time wanting it to be palpable. Got to make. On the bulk of the change. There’s my face in the cold forests that I cannot help. Scorching the quests in my twenties. Whisperings from the driver waiting. Frottaged Crème Egg. Notions of something I forgot. The pollen haze I fell into. Waiting for whackball. Chalky entrails murmur, on the bulk of this candlefisted memory. Forgetting how incomplete this place is. Pureed ghosts coughed. Swollen sweltering. I don’t know why I told you I wanted it to be winter. Recycling a seawater ebbflow vapour. Stockwell? A truly hideous dreamlike giantmap. My own gelatinous shadow moving through the muggy territory. Quickening thuds of Drake murmuring. On the bulk of the partial memory. On the bulk of the pavements. On the bulk. On the bulk.

© Copyright 2017 John Maher