Night shift.

The night shift splits curtains of its owlish certainty 

With those irrational looks that throwing a weighted 

road sign here at folly’s lochness model 

there ammonia blue theatrics Of topless 

buttoned down Foiled English love affair 

With wet humming digits rimming blown glass 

that has it’s whilst and poetic place queuing for fancy 

dressed lifts registers that taught us lest is too forget 

the world’s spores skirting and settling sprees 

in the hung silk tea house Built from uprooted carvery 

game for sport filled eyeliner sighted trees 

On open rewound wireless full fat Tarmac  

Of first light news good odds on evening edition 

Night shift pheasant with fingers in hats 

Dark webbing the coded bypass smiles