subverting instructions
Where sleeps the Chicken horse?
What lies ahead of its head?
a bulb needing be planted
A fire to be held aloft
where are the sheep?
Still locked away?
My cat died in a dream
crying out against war
Where is the fleece?
covering slipped discs,
punctured skin; self punctuating, loosely
Whose head is ahead?
lies lie lying late behind useful ilusions?
lift a stone
stick your finger in a hole
walk behind curtains
loosen your belt and drop
let loose
unleash
unfold
break
open
nuisance
nonsense
stand your ground and disobeye
laying moistened leaves on bulging breasts will soften and sooth
LONDON SURREALIST GROUP 
my cat died in a dream crying out against war. i love that. the imagination wide open like london with no buildings and not a blade of grass, and then the spirit as a head made from an exploding paint bucket, such an irresistable magnet for the homeless objects to flock towards, so each with the vibrancy of our own london. or rather, the opposite, as we flock towards the exploding paint-buckets of reality, with our own transparent outlines holding sherlock holme’s glasses. or rather, the opposite, the light shining on the beautifully alive razor’s edge between the opposites…