Assembled from the remains of door whores fished from the Rochdale canal, and slowly pieced together In a small attic crawl space on Piccadilly. There I waited as institutions rose and fell, and everyone drank heavilly. Climbing down, I lingered in the dark tungston lights praying that nobody will notice the seams. Offering treats to the tricksters that pass through my leg like gaze, All who enter beware! For I am dissatisfied.

I long for the for the western sea,
to live and laugh and love and be,