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The Sky there was a uniform inactive grey, except when stared at through a chainlink fence; those who could kept dogs to be led around by, affecting blindness and pitied the students of ancient languages their wealth of particles No one thought outshone the mica; once the chancellors learned to tweet the incident turned to harmless fun, the spice of banter hustled into sachets stored in one’s top pocket just in case   Art As I approach the man in the painting starts to cry over what happened with the little crickly crackly sound a dead fly makes when you pick it up Poor bloke, tied to instances with a bluish-white blob for an elbow It’s about time he put the kettle on or had a thought about a woman’s lips The fly begins to fizz in the trash ~ If you could paint the sunlight on the wall your whole life long and never grow a business, or bored; breathe some clouds onto the blue But here comes the middle of things ~ We’ve been waiting for some time – but for what if not more of the same? Trying to appear predatory and also faintly bored, like the wallpaper at Wilde’s remark; some discover art for art’s sake after not before they lose it all Some are the trashed fly and others, the middle of things most are brought aboard by work and love before they grasp what they already have Don’t you cry before it happens