Our skin is simply, and no more then a dust jacket album sleeve cover up to avoid the rays burning holes in everything around magnifying glass lense, smouldering ants, I see in a haze,

I see sunspots

Salad summer days becoming dry autumn leaves blowing a stitch in time sows it closed,

so we're told

soon there will be no space left to the bury the dead, so just throw them in the ground, vertical, up right for all eternity, being eaten by worms and parasites.

And all the while I am sitting here, redundant, waiting on the big push, the final assault, the final insult and then I leap off this cliff, into the unknown.

Lemmings in suits and tie, USB port connection cable data only ever flows oneway in here,

Here,
Where we are mushrooms, kept in the dark and feed shit.

Her voice is long nails dragged down chalky blackboard school classroom years past in old red brick buildings,(your first kiss on the stairwell now renovated and turned into flats for the new gentry.

Your moved out and gone

There is a problem with the set up. There is an error.

The building opposite has satellite dishes the size of giant frying pans, Easter Island like, lining the rim of the rooftop. They rotate slowy. I have no idea what hey do but I suspect they beam porn and NAScar racing into homes. Either that or there spying on us. Either way, everyday I get headaches.

The final days of this little empire are on us now.

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