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


Everyday I wake up and my first thought is
I want to go to a war zone'
But I am pale and burn in the sun
and the wars have migrated from Europe
Outside my window clouds are swallowing up the trains
and I wish that they were carrying ammo to the front
that they were carrying white boys
with milk in bottles and sandwiches wrapped in hankies
mushed in pockets
along the rails to ditches and mudslides and the whistling that cracks edges off tin helmets
the trains are full of tourists
with thighs warm from laptops
to ignore it would make me mad
mad crazy
to walk down the stairs now with my old coat pulled over my head
to protect me from the peeling paint work
and drink a bottle of something unlabelled in the cellar
while the train rattles overhead and shakes the dust from in between the bricks
mixed with dandruff on my shoulders
you're right that would be madness
stark madness

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