I’m reading Bukowski and it’s like a rich Christmas cake at my grandmothers table.
I’m reading Covid tales of Stockholm syndrome typed by chickens pecking at a keyboard.
Somewhere out in the grey morning lights go on, cocks crow, and other lights go off.
Jessica dies, I’m sad that she couldn’t hold.
In Bristol zoo a gorilla cradles her newborn child and so life goes on.
And on.
