The cannons of the storm ring out

A blue bullet and an upside down ‘i’
“Touch here to start”

The germ of an idea, coughed into cupped hands
Drawn out in the sand
As long as a piece of string
Strung out, along a lifeline
Or two

In inexorable decline
Drip, drip, drip, splash!

There’s a hole in heaven’s bucket
A keening siren call in my ear (raise a finger)
And the sweaty waft of vinegar
An odour as homeless as the feet giving it

The only guide to man is his conscience

Open the sluice gates


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