The Arsenal

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

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