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Tssssst, tsssst, tssst!

That’s the sound it makes

Pistons in your brain

Pressure pushed around and forced against the skull

Some kind of sickness close to pleasure which by the jostling tricks


The crack of open pack before the

bitch brown bubbling

that lurks muddy on the hob

Like a pond brimming in some dank vault of hell

Its pops and hisses whispering calls to vice

‘Maybe just this once I'll snaffle down some gulps,

Borrow some more time

Watch the needle on the dial ramp up to red

and wait to crash another day’


The motorised blindness of the throng

whirs blurry up and onwards

and we must indeed have fuel to move when there is in fact no motion

and all dynamism ever was human fretting

which cannot sustain itself in a perpetual lie


What if we come to stop

Because there was a drought?

Would we just explode or tear ourselves apart?

The bursting blood vessels strain against our bulging eyes and make us rest assured we’re mad

- looking at each other -

and so we will never stop to find the stillness under everything

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