even the seagulls have begun to rev like motors their urgent apocalyptic craws embed the cathedral green in the revelatory compass which points to doom : the bins gushing with liquescent detritus. the crow rickshaws & the magpies pummel the air pneumatically. the trees inhale like air-brakes on buses. the seasons conveyor-belt & churn out things to sell. bee-buzz amidst the ever-present minatory traffic drone a distance from the ear. the grass whirrs & vibrates clinically. the worms crank & creak in violent light shitting out soil to grow monoliths. passing purple tipped hebe on the windy hill I ask it for sage-words of advice because it endures us so well. its silent ambiguity speaks tired volumes. if we listen close like therapists objects will reveal-all one day. but we don't know how to listen to our creations. this is why I know that if there is a god he isn't listening to prayers. the productive rotting of peel & flesh makes mechanical melodies if you plant your ear's zoom in their direction. what proof I have is in the pudding of tiny things.