I no longer want
To see things from inside
The same pillow, held.
From now on all is a ‘fatal strategy’.
Even standing in the queue at
The chip shop
Is a breath away from the
World sliding into extinction.
It must be taken to the end,
Retched out to a view
From from outside
The pit, where
There is only absurd
Laughter and one perturbed man
With a scoop full of stuff
That now has no meaning,
As he stares hopelessly
At the salt and pepper shakers.
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