Disappointment old friend. Tramping for signs; paths that reveal themselves. Obsolete wet cardboard; locksmiths and handymen looking for clues. Faded Holloway floats by, dog eared Manor House, Finsbury Park milky coffee dragging out the day, watching boxes burst at the seams. Hop on rub the window nursing a plate of unrequited eggs. The joy of the tumbling bouncy castle. Here we go now before it steams up again.

A frozen rat a fox mating frenzy my poor old cat. Staring into a dismal blizzard I thought of skating on the ice back in the big freeze of whenever, mulling it over turning it around into ah whatever… But that’s just lazy poetry adding three dots to the end of a whatever… the back wheels of a Toyota Previa turning useless in a puddle of black old-world oil smoke rising, lean snow- flakes hovering outside my window like a song by the Cocteau Twins, irretrievable and just out of reach.

Eyes follow the folds of  fatty fissure. She’s been working through some stuff. 

We help her load the car, ungainly over black ice. 

The close-knit acoustics workshop has fallen apart since lock down, 

causing the news-letter to fall foul of chronic re-formatting. 

Nurse Moribund issues a brutal enema; the screaming intensity shatters glass. 

Straight into veins, rising purple in exhaustion bleeds out to its end. 

Everyone lodged inside alone squatting on guttural urges now children gone. 

Burnt up all fried unevenly, expert wisdom dissolves easy over ice.