Parker Crescent, 9.25, Sunday

 It's a filled-in morning and the sky

for those that like to read into things

is suitably bleak

for the front pages

are a collage of cyclical death and

trying to write it with reference

to anything but the death

which exists on its own terms

is an obscenity, likewise commentary

the constant flow of takes

entrenched and dumb and you think

as you walk down a suburban street

still-sleeping of how

there's money being made off this death

and scores being settled off this death

and positions being taken

prejudices reinforced

careers advanced

tweets sent

off this death

and how if

you do anything but abhor it

entirely

fuck you