Benjamin’s flaneur is the opposite of the original man of the crowd, he is looking for a delineated mental space where he can find true meaning, such as to ratify his life against the anterior constructs that are forced upon him by so called ‘modernity’   
  



A Distant barrel organ plays out a demented vanguard like a tape unspooling 
words run off the page and dissolve like wax

a ho hum holly-bush, whisky gown, vast lakes of nothingness
underground at night we canoe across them
it is so deep.

Haptic and covert flow animals

Begun upon an iceberg drift

Alluvial symmetrical flume

Patient dreams wait with latent speculation of gibberish bollocks

Stymied intellect blocked by years of coagulated fat

Producing a human specimen so repulsively fucked up

That any spume of thoughts that emerge could easily block drains with

Their protozoan monotones

Angry electric eels punish crabs and set up ambush situations on TV

Greased angry cadaverous shopping frenzy taking place right now

“You would not believe it, like a black mass on Oxford, can hardly say the name, Street.”

Cantankerous old fellow in the red and white

Believing is all joy apart from the pile up afterwards all

Bones

Canker

Waste Metas

Come on then we surge forth and the pitfalls of course are manifold

But it’s a golden time, made more precious be the ferric intensity

Of the years light fading

Of course, perhaps you’re right naturally I will stay to end and

Remain

Faithfully

Your Humble Servant.