Picture standing in the creek to cool down,
Some crisis of representation, little
Privilege to being the foreigner left.

Less hopping on a flight to Phobiza with
Its saturated flowers, more psycho sounds
Round the bend, ban, wall, protest.

City water softer, city air whispering,
“How many guns you own?” Such glamour
Of exile, healing work done daily.

The prospect of what is out there,
Constructs of spasmodic time, mixed-
Population facts vetted in extremis.

Raptor d’esprit lording it over empty
Dinner tables, new dynasties installed
Each orange morning by Mister Bastard.

Mutant metropolitan cultures at risk,
Objects specified vaguely: resist
Empire, masquerade, image pollution.

They stick to sidereal downers, spine-
Frozen isolationism: we move beyond
Kicking the foot of the Lunxhërisë massif.

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