in the lurid
& binocular land
old paranoia
grows lucid as owls
&
our skein of civilisation
is tangled
is tangled
like a rat king
painted flatly
on cheap veneer
&
an
awful & deliberate
awareness deficit
cosplays a second coming
in
in
the
street theatre of the dead
&
freedom
is a buttery illusion
reaching
all the long way
all the long way
from the biscuit tin
to the fridge of dips
to the fridge of dips
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