They used to call him the ironmonger
For he'd make a bolt for the door
When it was his turn at the bar
His wallet was in his other jacket
He'd be back in a minute
Just round the corner
It wasent far
It became a sort of art form
One that I couldn't help applaud
His bald faced brass balledness
Deffo could not be ignored
But there is a craft
To chicanery
If done with a bit of charm
It provides its own amusement
So really where's the harm?
Others were driven *****
It made them twist and ****
But I always appreciate
A master hard at work.

"You dream of a better day, alone with the moon" (Blixa&Teho)

I want to turn my body into protest, they are killed twice:
by hunger and  by bullets in the middle of  hunger
hatred is an invasive species, mistletoe  in reversed veins
I can see how thoughts fracture in the middle of sentence,  unrecognizable streets pose symmetrical questions
how can this be or is this all that can be
how much patience the pain has
death is like Schrodinger's cat,
it can be simultaneously here and there
a surreal space exists where time can't be saved
an invisible hand recycles genesis, invokes innocent beasts
time doesn't pass through all the layers of pain
some are turned into a certain sky, others into frozen movement, another into the fertile soil for growing wings  with which one cannot fly because the wind has not yet been invented