The angel of the north is in my backpocket fluffed up with Chinese cake in the shape of The Forbidden City …
Postcards of desire turn up at the corners of fading memory digitalised for ease here in the desert
where I pick insects off the arms of infertile clocks and rats run from air conditioners on reverse
Today’s pocket has faded into a holding pattern where bulls tramp and dogs camp it up until Good Friday when a killer is shared
and the community hits the piss to wash the week down although watches and calendars were never replaced when Time ran out
The angel of the north farts and hiccups and laughs as he apologises, Oh, I am so sorry! In gathering shadows Japanese smile into Nikons
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