Cock fight.

The only conclusion is there is no conscience

And the moment you know everything 

You might as well dig a pit and quarrel

Or cockfight With rats on tramlines.


As the man can’t retune the piano Blues 

Hem a wall and save broken cliques 

Made upon archipelago beds.


Rebuild yourself under advertising tutorial 

your find that way out From beneath 

Funeral homes and signage doors 

as you watch men eat Dirty cinema floors 

whilst wearing mothers laundry.

Peeping at the hole into the monosyllabic box 

there it is In recovery position playing its 

Reptative tune as it grinds its teeth 

With the leafs of honey.


As they let a mantis know the banqueting table 

Is all ready laid out with hot tub names 

of canyon way with crows Counting telegraphed reservations.