Monday, 2 March 2009


Even the dog had jam on it,
he thought.

It was a sunday morning
and the image
of god faced
stern worshippers
entered his head,
as he packed it
full of moist covered cereal.

A lack of milk
and a wealth of water
circling through the gritty little hoops
characterised his inner landscape
for the day.

His clock had stopped the night before,
its face stared
like a fresh corpse
questioning all that was good and still moving.

Even time had left him behind.

He could feel his sanity
nearing towards the door.

The feeble dropping of printed excretia
attempted a weak coup
against the surging tide
of mind towards an empty asylum,
as the postman

or someone


enacted the daily movement
of societies great bowel.

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