This morning, full of promise

This morning, bequeath the Earth

This morning, blow it up

This morning, disregard a pinning to 

an axis of cosmic debt

Paying the non-coercive eruption of connection with nothing but time 


This morning, the five quadrants of an island corroded by salty sea

curled in a way

‘most uncouth’

by Jersusalem’s contours of clay

Spaceship Brutalism

‘most unbecoming’

Bucky-balled Bluewater

Luddite Shire country 

Docking Vogon Blocks in Balham 

Radicalism escapes

through Willsden vents

Weaving between the morning quad shadows

Between the pillars – last night a Bullingdon card game

overlooked by tumbling dried fungus 

under a metastatic bulbous bark 

from which the new social contract  is written 

on a wager, 



Grace be to the gnarledgarden

 and the 12th century ruins

and Stalin’s Sunday stroll

While the cream of the TOWIE intelligentsia 

are sent off to undisclosed 






This morning, no earthquakes

This, no Earth.



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