this is the winter of our discount tents

Monday: I am scoring anti-capitalist slogans on a Coke billboard at the back of London Road market whilst supping a Sprite. My geography teacher points out that Sprite

we are pirates afloat in the brine except the salt wet is full with Mr Matey but, no matter we are the three bandidos we have looted much Zinfandel and Merlot and the other one

Call him Steven spread thin on cheap seats as the track unfurls. Everyone on the train turns sound down but keeps earplugs in. Steve makes a microphone from his Strongbow can

I had to drop a well known author before he remembered but once he had upped and downed me the banter flowed like so much campus chatter. In Norwich, beat poets were his bag, a friend

Imagine if the sky cracked open like a cheap plate and through the cracks seeped tiny coach-horses topped by even tinier men and the tinier men held aloft scripted banners

All summer, held up By iron girders Bad chi force-fields Metal on your larynx But now scanty And adorned with camp sunflower 86 winks at passers by Flashes its panes As if to say:

I heard you: You were all grey And buttoned Ready for business And those consonants Clagged in your mouth Like seeded fruits. Who are you to speak Of board meetings And colloquia?