Ladies & Gentleman, the Trafford Centre is Now Open the snaking lines of German automation simmer in the baking weekend sun, resentment clogging the interiors like a drowning gruel.
margins i am becoming like a series of pencil strokes; an addendum. squeezed in without thought whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. just a name, left to curl and fray
my fallen owl thrown to the gutter, in a spluttered thunderstorm of progress, my owl lies cold in an open grave. an ill fitting shroud, patched together from sodden litter.
the first crack cradling the final one, four hands fumble for the ailing pulse, as the coffee convoy leaves town. the occasional dropped bean crushed under ten tonne wheels.