Tick Out. ‘Knave of Clubs’, London. 1995.

Sir ‘reality’ in uniform saluted the motor that instructed us all to sit down.

Sit Down.

Tick Out.

Resume the unmentionable, whatever whatever.

The weather is steel shards and mercury.

Slipping and sliding, tyre wheel in tyre splash.

Lashing at the pavement outside.

Hiding in the candle light haloed by a blue field of white curtain daisies on the table.

The blackness looms about and tickles my spine.

Scratching and shuffling in this ancient, no electric house.

A mouse in mini-motion, a rat-a-tatter in a corner scarping.

The dirt on every plate and china mould

Stacked behind the drip,






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