Stuttering in the frontseat of a broken down lagonda
That's paused in the rain. Working up to the chatter
Of a an overactive thyroid, I'm calling again.
Cold calling again.
My desk has the allure of a factory explosion
A framework of ice.
Pick up your receiver and I'll sell you any
Product, or Merchandise.
Packaged in the flourish of an ribbon wrapped gehenna:
I sell the world's pain.
Cold slab calling again.
Morgue amassing mammon, in the canyons of disaster
The glass towers cry.
Nothing made from Nothing
Comes from Nothing, Goes to Nothing
Your name is a lie
And your address.
My mail can't find you.
Cold stamp failing again.
Package left in leafmould
By the sidedoor when the bell fails, to alert.
To wake the sleeping sentinals
Of the doorway,
Of the hallway.
That ought to be there,
To protect you
From cold and the rain.