The end one meets
After turning to say “This is just the start of it, mate!”
Before stepping in the dual carriageway bus lane
Into the path of a fast travelling 46A.
At the unveiling of that painting, which seemed ancient
Great conversations were provoked, about authorial intent
About projected depth, and what many things meant
Shallow things leant meanings never said.
And so fled His congregation from that sweating tent,
Delirious at the good news of the World’s end post-Lent.
Readers as victims
Poems as victuals to one teat-addicted.
Alchemisland 
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