here in Poundstretcher / we are
- blank -
we are building nebulae, falling
like, I dunno, wages / but anyway-
“how old are you, my
sweet critique of poetry
burning, prize-winning factory.
True, we were entire galaxies
but now its 11.58 in London
its AM & PM, both. No point
in waking your oblivious storms
I mean in Poundstretcher
ten thousand were drowned
on discount / cosy & warm
but here / in the solar eclipse
we are kicking off, big style
- wet heat, petrol noise -
TONE SUPERSTORE (bliss)
“& we saw no sun nor moon
we heard some screech
the sea” / meanwhile
we were listening to some
records: “the demonic tones
these songs blank, unimagined
o our delicate spheres” /
o delicate crash, hyena splat
Stop talking about the fucking dead
Burn the EDL / slash boiling lead
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