if I have to drag the corpse of past hope up the stairs
Then so do you.
the lift don’t work.
No the lift never works.
The fat man smiles at passing passes.
Swipe and load yourself into government files.
flies hold court inside whilst the birds
mostly gulls
dreaming of eating pigeon innards
squashed by cheap mass transport.
I was born in the desert
sang ballads with babies of the grain
some things are never the same
never the same,
-Llangammarch Sessions 91.
You remember that night guys, some words flew around the bar. Steve V got himself a catapult and lost his eye.
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Dreams, poems of birds, especially their insides reflects a disatisfaction with ones inner life. A crying out to be free of chains and even though this may not be intentional so does the image of the desert. I read this stuff somewhere but liked what you wrote.