There’s all this history everywhere
shattering illusions of civilisation;
open sourced, scaling walls,
praying with tearful import,
for the consumption of any old god.
Owning up to your lost ambition,
you’re caught out again
naked and in love,
painted a faked shade of golden, exploded
and cast into these pages.
All the while traffic flows around
and through every single one of us.
And every single of one you
turns and curls up, caught in the wake
of your own funereal pyres.
Book of Pye 