There’s a man who walks in front of a pair of scissors.
As he walks down the road they cut the road down the middle
Raw red blood cells ooze out of the wound
Doctors run bleeding behind him trying to stem the blood.
There is a siren sounding in the sky.
It is made from a round tin with a lid and a handle to turn.
Inside is a cat on heat.
In the room next to mine a group of giant grapes are angry at what god has done.
There’s a continuous echo of a working-class Sunday morning without enough love.
The grapes detach from the bunch and jump about.
A tiny man runs after them and smashes them with a hammer.
Light from the short winter day trickles in thru the window.
I rub it on my skin like a salve of everlasting life.