Strange Brew

He was comatose from the wood grain in a London alley pub.
She was double-digit texting in a two-storey Wagamama's.

He spoke with the creaks of bridges at dusk.
She bothered a beggar with a storm of malapropisms.

He became a park bench until a tree turned into a voice.
She hammered his apology into a pretty little fascinator.

He squirmed away from the fascism of reason.
She tottered into the Guild of Ugly Gestures.

He was cylinders rolling down a hill, colluding together at the end.
She was intersecting hexagons, rude and brainwashed in mauve.

He was all brewing bergamot on a stolen boat- drifting away.
She was all glass-filtered gleams in twiddling lanyards.

He made a gestalt of Thursday and shapeless voids.
She stabbed a hi-vis spork into a bounding poodle.