This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.


the bacon was blue and wrapped in a thoroughly British manner around the
body of christ the copper
the hi-visi warden of suburban sin
he knocked twice requesting sanctuary
hounded by swarming tendons
a feverous mass of inconsistencies that know
this long century has bought his statistics to a halt
dots have been dragged out
run off his anointed clipboard
some lost in continents uprooted by gunfire
others just discarded and proved irrelevant

the warden peered over the pulpit
he found this place to be empty
as holy as a carpark at midnight
kids crackling plastic in their own private ritual
he put this puncture to aside and tried to get on with the day
but it was useless
he was all loaded and enthralled by picking at his scabs
which they told him was ok

‘no pleasure purer than to scratch an itch’

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