spools of suffering Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass. Rural England. children in a nightmare heat half-formed ghost agonies in black and white Sunday's supplement prick with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers Bandage up me eye Blind me to me own identity thorn Toussaint de beacon fire-woman hopeful stream healing star yellow sunrise carving out me own identity it may be sick with tyrants, but I am branded by an impression of sunlight time rolls its tanks like a hollow doll I have no passport, there's no way back at all My city takes me dancing accuse me... circle me My city hides behind me full of powerful incantations one-way journey into history strung out like bunting pearl-grey pebbles Grandfather's boat salt-sodden List of fish dark prince, muscular, dangerous as though he no longer existed which had been the better way to die We are prepared no stacks... that can be lost no trees, no natural shelter Exploding comfortably spits like a tame cat Turned savage Space is a salvo. bombarded by the empty air. huge nothing that we fear.