When you don’t know what to write about you end up thinking about half-formed phrases,
mixed metaphors that have cascaded from the daily sound-bites of life’s plight:
The diving, the whooping, the cold-calling clarion calling across the department stored gangways;
Make-ways, media-plays, false-stays closeting us from the mattressed, the blanketed, the raw itched, hands blanched red-claret, eyes-torn, colder than a submarine boom, the noble as pestilence, no sense, nonsense, this makes no sense.
I cast my eyes down, the infra-red watches me, orders.
Fuck you austerity, we were all once noble.