Uncontacted Tribes

what a kiss!

Brunel would be proud— 

germ of a goosebump, 

Mr. Tong Iconoclast?

As a former Omegle aficionado

celebrating old birthdays,

the right hand doesn't

know what's left

mould abode,

but nerves are in a loft

like my jacket collection—

the replies that stop, the 

writing that begins.

rambling sign 

with a pigeon chest,

addicted to Neolithic traffic

that's bafflingly 

never remiss 

the A12 tis' odd ground for a mosey.

I want to help those animals

that scream at night

far out by the pheasant shack

is the Barbie-burning clearing

pinstripe paisan's vial

lugs Thameswater 

clinic lights the way

through Geminis and Greeks

torn plastic

impaled by branches;

takeaway cyclists a part of lifts

teleology, soup-splattered

Petrol Station— 

every pump a pump for life

white-eye aisle stress

hurtling with roof down;

your number plate will be

your undoing

drawn likenesses, potentially from TV,

tulips have a seven day guarantee

feebly perform to a Gladiators audience

Born Slippy sounds out 

the Unite Students’

road echoes lager 

mutterings picked up on tape

chaps with Coogi-style jumpers

bobbing to yet another

Ableton masterwork

anyway,

these robots

who generated Tay Tay's fake nudes 

should have modal vasectomies

or be conscripted into celibate paternity

bespoke neurodivergent mittens

hastily chucked in

gang war-cross-fighting

caricatures of

cheap drones

mining the Gold Coast, eventually

Ethiopia will reach the ocean 

Damascene bombs

Thebes, unrecognisable 

for its generic new builds—

separatist gardens, a shed for everyone...

professional wailers

weeping on a tab

for Scottish wildfires

this time makes short work of the clock

above the Far East Port

Brent Geese sail 

in formation across the

guitar-plucked heart-sky