The decaying fabric of everyday life,
Anarchy is never more than six feet away;
If I ever felt safe behind my own wall
I will visit again those who had nothing at all.
The salmon started swimming a different way,
I felt their magnets in my heart;
The statues of lions would tear me apart
If not preoccupied queuing for bronze.
I followed a ferrous stream to where it began,
Agitpropists on a Parisienne lawn,
There’s nothing like a contagion
For dispersing my personal
Mouvement des Gilets Jaunes.
In a former Time, statisticians reported
That we were not more than six feet away
From a bubonic-plague-incubating rat,
But now I expect it is a little less than that.
I toured the empty boulevards
Where literature once ferried me,
March has nothing left to give
When only two people with a banner meet.
Centuries before, children chimed
“A penny for the guy”
To commemorate the dismemberment
Of a terrorist captured under Parliament;
His quarters sent to the empire’s corners,
Now in their barrows they push without custom
A white cross on a shaved cat’s stomach,
While a plasticised ivy grows through the cellars.

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