Monday, August 29, 2016

Cymbal taps & Cosey's
steel guitar: light rain
along the fence at Morden
colliery.  The former "pride
of industry" defunct,
admired now by Prius
mom 'n dad, up island
for a weekend. Scarce
profit.  At least one
strike each year, put down
by barged-in constables.
They moved the town by rail,
dud cordwood cheques
stacked in the paymaster's crib
& these Goretex assholes
want to preserve it, like
braid garlic nailed
to the wall?

Things naturally fall apart.

After spring storms, Players
butts, maple helicopters,
pulpy chunk gyproc &
a blackbird's chewed-off wing
gather at the base
of Scotchtown Road hill.
Primitive accumulation.
Putting things together,
not aesthetic choice,
but index--

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