This intervention of 27 verses is a manifesto musing for the new year, a break from the adverts in a city of urban noise.

Cross section of Christopher Street and Strait Street, Valletta

Things are getting pretty pretty and pretty ugly the mirror is pretty clearly crackling cackling in all the news that flows an ulcer to pop the weasel in, junk field

i want to be sexy, light, violent, good in the new year i should have written this before but now the jet stream of focus pulls the brain back and drips out typing, flowing it flows.

things are getting pretty prettily ugly and ugly is the new pretty and old friends are petty in their ugliness and i will read all the most sophisticated words and hands will make noises for me. at any given moment this thought will implode and i won’t remember it. i am thinking about my friend who is dead, and the others who will die.

i pretend i am writing this for someone with a deadline to keep up appearances. your things are fugly and mine are pretty greatly probably not proper and i won’t think about strategy, i put my teeth in a heart and get away with it. yesterday i was a new person and today i was the past one passing pretty tenderly on your tenderloins. pretty in waist in the morning,

music obscure, the kind that repeats and chews itself away in a kitchen full of empty cups and we like it. it’s a new year of pretty petty preaching plundering ugly things for a sucked air of new beginnings. i want to be a poet. i want to put my hand inside and eat it.