where are we? what the hell is going on?
the dust has only just begun to form crop circles in the carpet
sinking feeling spin me round again and rub my eyes,
this can't be happening when busy streets amass with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy hide and seek
trains and sewing machines all those years they were here first
oily marks appear on walls where pleasure moments hung before the takeover,
the sweeping insensitivity of this still life


