Maybe if I change me pen I’ll be a writer, the writer writes. Magnetise the paper to the ink. Make it sparkly. The feathers from last nights kill rest heavy on the knee. The bird says John Coltrane died in vain. The bird says Bessie Smith give me a bottle of beer. The bird says the skies angry clouds may eat you alive. Don’t read the papers, they’re made of butchers leftovers. The law courts are full of poetry, reminding somebody someday that they had to live in our world as we could never live in theirs, I mean it was not from lack of offering says the old lady waiting outside with leaves in her hair and pockets of stones. Once we were beautiful and it was more than skin deep, before we wrote laws commanding the ink magnetise the paper that is. I’m trying to hold it together here. I’m trying not to feel sorry for the cows in france in May. The future is in the hands of those who strangle the present, and all we have is pockets of stones. Lets be cruel.