Written in response to a film installation at the Ludwig Gallery of Contemporary Art.
It is the same grinding
sound like teeth,
twisting the bedpan
the way you fingered
rosary beads before
they were taken,
trapped inside yourself,
finding spirituality
in the bowl
you shit in.
Random poem.
The shadow of Mcdonalds,
Burger King squats hopeful
more inclined to the passer by,
takeaway cubicle open
like a ticket booth.
McDonalds screams
Internet Access
like a spoilt child
who has been told
she must leave
the birthday party.
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