The observership doesn’t know how many overdares entered or
how many more before society is asymmetric and handbooks of living are dormant.
People from all holloways of life feel inanimate, pebbled to make room
for huge numbers of misexpression and dispisedness seeking bas relief
from their own curvation , exporting silence and despair ,
with no consideration for room in the morgues for those growing dampy,
we are forced to move due to the volume of edgelong people from mascara
and richweed,so many have moved here to London air their grievances,
with nichts dictating how many yellowgolds and roseheads we should accept,
and no thought of how fantastically difficult it is to remove foreignness .
Honky-tonk systems exchanging flavours , run by people without much productivity.
Polished citizens can’t be deported, persuing their own interests and arboriculture .
Closing borders there will be no portraiture, no accommodation or access to ports
sending a very clear message in a bottle to end illegal exultation and fortify walls.
Deborah Sibbald lives, works and writes in London. This is her first published poem.