Visually drained, uncommunicative
Vale. The villagers are static.
Silkworms have vanished. In the market
Of semi-abstract importances
Vacant bowels of taxpayer response.
I said the nozzles are connected directly
To bosoms of target resonance,
Via landlines of honey. It only
Remains for the ducks
To turn them on.
Most ducks, or indeed career paths,
Are insulated from perdition in a protective capsule
If they take for guidance the sequence of the bible:
Middle, Pleasure, Rubber and God.
These inconsequential incidents in the in-tray of time encapsulate exactly
The labour of collapse I’m always coming across in my lorry,
And in my lounge.
The Collapse Curriculum in Britain has always felt the employment of curtains,
The straightforward enjoyment of a colleague in custody –
Poisons in all likelihood.
It’s funny how even the crappest of diets can trigger a treasure,
Anyway, these incidents seem to give something of a light to bringing it all
Resolutely ball to the library of tawdry crumminess –
For which I’m a complete sucker – noting that the curves
Seem to have been lengthened by St Augustine’s arrival
(He brought news of the worms).
It amuses me how the brand-most vision shows
That the dads can only get larger,
The beverages more high-congregation,
Around this node of the wounds.