In 2020 we are the motors of the mechanics we drive in the bed of other work days as the bees fly less
and the drive of somersaulting mad men, calmer than a pool of iced days off after the pool boy cleans up start screaming,
although it’s universal when you rise, and my limbs burst through these elsewhere tossed things, and elsewhere bones that have no succor in the middle of the sun’s dance, as if:
naïve butchers in the street are sleeping on the bus and there is no answer from the ricochet dream apart from keep your **** together keep your **** together…
and the world is well travelled when you’re smoking beside a dog and the obliterated silence of a room has a voice,
but the turnstiles open when the poem begins, ah! the weekend again-this, envelope of random orchids that rustle and open,
in the haven of a ***** flat where we find the best corona jokes new cities these shaking palms the way the world works better at 10 am and the humour of a crazy snake, checking KPIs again,
and when i wake i will love this zero hour contract more,