pedalling to the factory
where the bones of language are reconstituted
harborne lane vexes
its casual ugliness
its traffic blight
its lack of care
shell petrol garage
measures out the price of environmental carnage
in the niger delta
i am singing the song of the moment
brother wolf
softly under my breath
as i pass a fellow traveller
hooded
tracksuit bottoms
head bent
low under his breath
the grunt erupts with sudden violence
shut the f*** up!
all they will find is his bones
licked clean
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