The future, crabs in a bucket
Oil sludges, moving sluggish
Through city stormdrains
Shimmering puddles
Pulsing Rome cloak purple and daffodil
John Brunner Summer
With Blade Runner weather
Muckers going numb, going under
Their suicidal thunder spin cycles the towers
Themselves peopled by psychos
You know them, a certain type
Who might go there, who might blow
Who’d want to show ‘them’
On seedy forms
Reading dubious alt histories
A mind littered with bits of myth
A few too many movie scripts
The fraudulent begins eclipsing what is
Alchemisland 
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