Saturday, 11 January 2014

Going along

Gasometers are
singing down
from the Fort

road grease   nausea

dust piles and perimeter scrub
and crows at belltower vents

brittle insides

Language folded up too much

Me is a box of imaginary meat

maybe hole



  1. How terrifying this imagined conversion of something into nothing!

    Probably best not dwell too much upon what this form of social arrangement has made of us.

    Strictly down to futile attempts at limiting if not curtailing the damage, here.

    Still, where is cheer, I ask myself.

    And Duncan... I must say that notwithstanding the inconceivable awfulness of everything elsewhere, it is always lovely to be visiting a class room.

    (The rest is nothing but exhaust, or Kate Moss.)

  2. I paid a visit to the recent incarnation of the Fort for training in "Creative Thinking" (more awful than it sounds) while I was working at the library. The most hollow place I've ever stepped into.

    As to cheer, our only hope is Ron and his Swiss Bells.

    I liked the crows, mind. I'm a sucker for corvids.