Not that time already, surely not.

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I'm killing time, before the time for kick-off; after seven defeats on the spin the rim is becoming tricky, and we need something wicked to stick to.

At 19:45PM precisely the whistle will blow, the secretions will flow, the sears will know that their predictions are out of kilter.

At 21:30PM or thereabouts the truth will out, the pathway will be set down, to the fall of the final curtain, for certain.

I of course am optimistic; it is in my jeans, it was in my schoolboy football shorts, the sort you would never be seen wearing now, anyhow

I took a video-poem to The Arts, our monthly artistic gathering, and here it is:







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