make it clear / they call it chaos
a wounded deer on the straight road
though the pines. low on fuel and signal.
crows survey the failing light. burger sauce
on a national trust map.
it is not
confusing / complicated / hard to navigate /
or make sense of / it is
straight forward /
we are not in chaos /
we have turned sharp right
you know of those / who drove it that way
your job is to make them
stop
These warnings, are trusty
The workers are tired,
trapped with absolute terror.
Touchy wardens, are they.
Toyed with; artists, truly
taxed, worried and torn.
Try whimsical, after ten
totalitarian weekenders, a thousand
totalling wind-ups, against tinsel
titled wankers all tucked-up
toasty, within allibaster towers.
Theiving, wherever. All tokenistic.
Triumphing worthy altruistic tendancies.
Trust. We’re all tuning
to whatever airways, trading
tik with any tok.
Tories will always try
to wantanly alienate, to
totemically wrest, auto-tune tribalism,
top-down widespread allied tabiod
toss, whenever attitudes tire.
This, when actual tradespeople
turn willingly against themselves,
taking whatever acid treaties
they will accelerate tomorrow.
Think why, allus this.
Treat without all thoughtfuness
these words - and these
three-line whipped and tyranic
tuchusleckers will always triumph.
These warnings, are trusty.
The ghost of Stan Boardman illegitimately pigeon scraps over pellets of relevance in the rain smelted park, as the chalky grip of dibble dust dissolves off of his kicked-in teeth. #FlagShaggers
POLYSTYRENE ARENA
MPS AND BLIGHTY LAGS
HOT TOPIC TAKEAWAY
COMMENT DUTY
CRACKING FLAGS
I knew I’d be licking the sticky
floor with the rest.
It was writ large on
the flyer.
The bounce and pop gives
no pity.
Skirt spins look mag-nificent
from down here,
at least.
To catch a breather for
easier times, is
all I’ve got.
As shrapnel for the phone box,
my last,
disappears into
a sprung floor gap,
I blame the management.
