SOFT BUFFET

between
gods bomb children
his angel drones
lazy government fudge
and
all
the
other
broken biscuits
swept under a rug 
eight miles high

is a no mans land
is an everyones land

a writhing soft buffet

of
jeans on the radiator
wind blown wifi
and aspirational pasta

of
sold holes and souls 
dodging spikes and system 
for a high like amputation 

of
fatty brainless meat
basting itself
in function creep

and anyway its all swallowed today
in
the
spaces the rain found
in
another
slow
british
morning

a whole generation long

from jeremyrhammond.com