Thursday am you think?

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Post Apocalyptic Wetherby, on a Thursday, where teeth and eyes are reduced to glimmers. The pearls that shone are now oil smeared, leaden, musket shot which absorbs light but gives no reference.

At 1017 the bus detours with me ensconced above grey haired ammonia's; bag grasping, breath gasping, lost, possessed, forgotten, forgetting, post being, past.

Get me passed this blind-spot. Not to touch the earth, not to see the sun, nothing left for you to do but "run, run, run". We gather persons like the ever falling dust which has been poisoning us since coal was burnt by galley slaves to export cloth and beyond those fateful days in 1945.

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