smoking and apples and towels and clocks

for death comes like a lager swig

behind the cricket club

with biscuits and crisps

and the knick-knacks of the world

packed into overnight bags

and the crisp air of the wanting night

snapping like a biscuit

dropping crumbs on tiled roofs

and how death comes is like the sadness of night

glib and uncontrollable

bullet-torn with inescapable cliché

and to find something better isn’t life

but smoking and apples and towels and clocks

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