Tuesday, 20 October 2009


There’s a drone outside in
Need of a breath,
A permanent tone,
A plane going over,
And over,
A UFO hoping
To be noticed,
A ship’s horn mourning
The afternoon.
I checked it out:
At the end of the street
Machinery and men
Were eating into it;
Not simply resurfacing the road,
But peeling
Back inches of history
In table sized slabs,
And were currently down to flat caps and cobbles
And horse drawn trap marks.
They appeared determined and equipped
To strip deeper in whatever quest drove them:
Searching for body parts,
Or looking for the Mayor’s lost key maybe,
Or simply scraping to set a better foundation;
Either way the fuckers woke me up.

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