The flower head is set to burst wide open.

Dormant in this tired space,

Matured and rooted by the year,

It sways in gentle rhythm with this slowing autumn time.

Bulging now with future life, it stands

As testament to nature’s cycle.

Soon its seeds will spread afar,

Exploding silent and unseen, like time and time before.

And from the casting of those flyspeck seeds
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Drawn by senses pulling underground

We fill the weekend night again,

Determined we will spill a million selves who never come of age.

We are swarming fetish butterflies,

Whose daytime chrysalises sit

Cocooned in drawstring bags and holdalls ready for the outside world.

And like giant insects, flitting Moth-men

Buzzing round bright light and scent,

We all will vani...

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