Today I passed the Sunday papers
Let Tesco store the determinants
The various possibilities at least
They pay for data.
Today I parsed the tarmac
Carpark and the Starlings
Have sickened. Hiding between packed bumpers
They had recovered some numbers since spring.
Will they migrate, this flock. The papers
They ask nothing. Tell everything
Moral outrage and the photo editor
Is it that black energy that really matters?
Of migration routes, Baretta, for some soul
Has flown an Albatross across Oceans
Weaponised like a polarised Coleridge's foretelling retold
Do we not see to where this all begins
The papers which I haven't read speak no evil
Nor cite last year's laws making all GMO's illegal
Sequence editing patentable
Do you discriminate against the preciousness of time?
What hippocampal regions remain latent
That actin, the acting, the tight strung line.
The starlings in the carpark have taken for a fever
Like the pigeons did with claw foot
The bent fingers of the Mudra, their pallium
That possibly with care and regard we might reach.
The football evolves on the green
From the retelling of penalty shots, to pass and stroll
Some young white civillian
Sits with her red hair against the railings
Of the goal, her brother's push the bold mouthed boy's head
Toward the soil, softly as they might teach.
Some young white civillian
Has died in a jail cell
With predictive data driven stochastics
I couldn't be more sarcastic
If I mentioned Blair <!--the Giant--> Peach
Plus the Injustice of every and all those between each.
