The roads downed tools at bloody last;
the proletariat. For permissible exercise,
the arm of a gun is held cocked
at sunrise to kill crow in short black.
I smoke locked down in maps: I bring
two one for us both. The refuse is in case
of detonation and a fuse is lit
so my fever hits whilst asleep.
Every corpse amounts to an age and
underlying illness. 50 million volts:
do not enter, or touch your face.
Picture by Rupert Loydell