Chants from hearts, that can't repent
-I hear from every bar, in soho
and lament
wading the streets
I see
sanctioned off
where I expected sheets of steel to fall
-from the sky

Is this religion?

Dormant disco *****
still turning in sleep
as big as the sun
and so they repeat

and trash, floats towards
then past, the bin

each platform captured within
as a pagan amulet;
persistence permits
and I await initiation

or the decision to elect I leave and project-
across golden maps fading brown, the endless claps on ears that drown.
An incorporated business I suspect awaits a future of decent respect.

everyone shouting "just let it happen"

and then at last a log cottage or cabin I built with my two hands-cremated where the stumps still stand. Of a series of misfortunes I depict this was to be the one I loved the best, for it was robust and could last. It would begin suspended in detention and later appear on murals and epitaphs. As solidified commands.

Graffiti, graff and moss would all overwhelm a tired future of eternal past whilst the wind whistled back through the cracks- "just dance" and "laugh".