Carry me through inflation valley,
To the place where the clocks accumulate
At the feet of the marble instruments,
And then the new ritual.
Move at midnight,
Bargain the frozen notebook in the pocket
For a pile of digital credence,
Where the exchange can be made.
Hourly face readings for the dictionary.
Welcome to sedate hell,
It’s getting late
This is also the place
Where they play wedding.
Orgasm theatre in the wreck of stars and counter-personal bitumen.
A streetlamp can be seen here,
Obsolete in black mist
Light just touching the bottle green
Of her Glass Hand.
From the watching place you hear them sing their nightly sugar prayer,
Calling, ‘Merchant, sell us our dreams’
Acid breath effluxed
From the lips.
To trust the process without function.
Mark this rib cage of stone and violet ash
Chamber of perfect hostility
Bitter orchestral noise as it bites.
In neglect, young ones will wage new wording
Perform the grateful honour trick.
The cold chair falls
Crashing into shards of bovine mass,
You can watch it on television.
Words, Miranda Cattermole
Image, Ellen van Deelen (Flickr)