A clacking sound, no,

 a beating sound,

 

in the rafters

 

 trivialise things always

 

yet stay entranced

 

 by hypnotic violence.

 

This day 

 

 

          of orange 

                               dances. 

connects earth to the lungs

       just bags of air?

bags of you

the same albumen is all over that opens 

the doors to a ruin?

             

               Blood pressure is 

                Brackish,

Piety softly driven insane by innate survival instincts,

Slowly introduce succour to the subject of a new nothing. 

Pitched towards the horizon goal.

Shopping push your way through heavy fruit; swoon against the 

protest flow.

 

Meanwhile 

 

discomfort ignites new folk horror aberrations

we watch the bladed stagger from grub to grub into white light 

beacons of harsh tranquility.

 

The returning images are just:- 

 

Mad  park avenues lined with bird shit. 

The undignified body groaning.

Bones creaking with remorse. 

Fumbles finding fury in perm-a-frosted moorings.

Up before dawn.

Something going on.

Never before like this.