Upstairs lights are on. Wild plastic blasting.

 

A day’s worth of noise pollution

Buried with books 

Welcomed to the after-life

Pour paper backs over

Dog eared constituents

Receiving hands reach out in italics

Arm’s outstretched only the tips remain

Cleave to the book pyre

Burned and gone

Walk a straight line across England if you can

Relics explode under foot

Down ditch and over barbed wire

Grey brown mass of swirling density

Face goes grey with horror

Sandblasted incredulous

Fists poke out of the ground

Middle finger erect

You’re sprung again.