Internal combustion engine exhaust noise encroaches on my sleep.
The first punks of principle could've used a dash of turpentine,
wash out their prickly pride there and then before the next generation
came along and left all the lights on.
It's never really dark in London, not outside anyway.
Pollution of every persuasion - noise-pollution, light-pollution,
mind-pollution, pollution-pollution - I just want to puke.
Stick my head under the pillow to escape - unlock my portential.
Where We Go From Here
Put it out there - prospective problem populants
have ditched unexpected pragmatism and are pushing for resolution.
Someone needs to go brave it,
show them their greying nebulus of submerged prospects,
a sort of rueful distillation process involving the dire dreggs
of whatever passed for unabridged optimism
under the previous establishment. This charge has legs,
hundreds actually, like a capricious caterpillar
distended then discarded. This is the weight of killer hubris
descending through voluminous stillness, spooking
half dead aspirations and super-mauled soon-to-be carrion
who exist only in the intellectual imaginary - not the common
sort, moreso the tangible kind simpering in the solid vagueness.
You can understand such gloomy disposition, though ambiguity
surmounts the bleak outlook and offers a more gentle handshake.
Take it - that kind of tactile warmth is rare, and one certainty
is thus; it will take some time before things return to how they were.
Curveball circumstance and sociological narrative converge.
The resulting sense of helplessness, of restlessness,
that never really fades, never really changes - but ignore that
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