the end of days are an eternal condition
always looping back
heavy with sign and portent.
He falls with the contours of the pavement,
letting the uneven footsteps guide his drunken compass
down hill and past the wrought iron fence.

Even though the sun shines you can’t help
but feel the drowning vegetation
through your damp feet.
Follow
the flow of the water –
it must lead somewhere. Maybe they’ll know something.

The way it presses against you. Almost
incidiously, like a creepy uncle.
His voice curls endless whisper to
negate
the
meat. These people are like
gaping flesh wounds. It isn’t good to look.
Also advisable to plug up your lugs with gauze
and vaseline. Unfortunately, this attracts
attention.
You desperately need to hide yourself
in some way – if only for the benefit of
future generations. The fear
that these people work in television
is very tangible
and
you worry that the condition may
be infectuous.

You knew a guy once – swallowed
up by the artisan cheese
crowd.
Only thing left of him
a memory. Skulked
the twittersphere for days
like a bad instagrammed meal.

He leaves quickly so
as not to be noticed.

The city doesn’t hum,
it creaks and moans.
Glasgow has real old bones
polished up real good
in the spirit of
homogenised milk.
Doesn’t mean you can’t smell it. That dust of living decades.

On the underground this smell condenses – almost pure vapours.
Catches you in the back of the throat. Hard not to gag.
Going around
and around
the circle line
feels like being sucked
through an unpleasant future.

Great Western road is straight as fuck, a runway straight out of the city.
shoot along it like a morphine
lullaby.
Forget the troubles
of
that aching metropolis, but only if you got the means to pay the ferryman.

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