Channel area. Face to face in the sun.
The problem of ownership won't go away,
merging, handing off smoothly,
listening down and in to the old ways of doing things.
The phone goes down.
Paper is handed over.
Sort of in parallel.
We know who they are in their sheepskin car coats.
Fastening on to the work that comes in from head office
with starbursts and explosions of light.
A glimpse of the Pleiades.
Orion canted up at a crazy angle in the bitter air.
The priest on his knees praying
like a chain ratcheting over a cog,
nape exposed, adam's apple bobbing.
We know how hungry they are.
Internet Death Claims.
Making the best use of their time
with those nylon executioner's gauntlets.
We know we've got to knock it on the head.
Calling for warmth,
calling for warmth,
flooding. beautifully kempt,
lovely nails, so smoothly shaven
and a warm blanket of tedium
softening down.
Sun bleaches out the scuff marks on the wall.
Millions of them. We in our blue shirts
and our colourful ties can only talk,
not drive hundreds of miles to close the sale.
A simple ligature and a sheet of leaves. We need to talk to you.