Down in the docks
They’re building a tower
Cranes lowering precast jigsaw pieces
Into the filled-in futureshock
Of a foul berth where
You slavishly recalled the gig that
Never was beneath the
Bridges where Flat Tyre Jack and
His squad of squabbling seagulls
Shout down the names of enemies
In broken chains
And get Jurassic on the floating
Silver darlings full of plastic shot
And cola coloured blood
Sinking claws into early spring
And spinning spleen and bile into
Scrawled signs on the walls of the
House of Construction