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.

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