Monday, 28 January 2008



in the bubble of a moment
I learnt all rights are unsung

as the crust of empire tots up
Oh chortling telly totty

in the penetrations of space time
everybody tries the rigid poser

stop the darkling leaking and looping
all through a Saturday night

who cares about a small rodent rage
when birds flop out of a white sky

and elders operate in the plural
fingering the greased love-button of starvation systems

how can you burn up and down our targets
and paddle towards amniotic bliss

or is this a covert God-Death
because we can’t face the maths

I or whoever organise my days around a bright factoid
around and around

rampant in the scriptorium of gel
I keep piling it on

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