BULLSEYE.

I find myself along the lane that runs by Westfield
Banks, where secret lovers come
To chance their arms,
Pased the riverside and under Boothferry bridge until
A roundabout that’s actually
Rectangular comes to me.
Right to Howden, Airmyn ahead or left back into
Town, and you know there’s only
Ever one way to go:
Up the overpass and down the road, and, like a
Second skin, before me sits my
Ancient armour plate
Protecting and deflecting this world’s carnage,
Regardless of the fact it’s not as
Flexible as most.
And local shit scum and junkies, foreign labour flunkies,
And mewling childlike monkeys
Will all be saved
As this place courses through us and impurities
Therein are welcome too,
As long as they behave,
For everything that’s here, and there’s really
Nothing here but us, is all that counts,
And isn’t that the point.