Pome from Free spirit news.

God designed putrid poles decorating the landscape, handing out long shadows. The ukulele man bantered with fire, dancing down accordion streets. The children were known to put out their eyes and join him. God-awful pictures were distributed. No one loved anyone. Medicine was all around but people still died. Whole swathes of town gone moldy grey. The sun hurt some buildings, and no one cared that they burned. No cars running and just a few horses. Dogs have formed their own country. We remain as dust motes in the dog’s eyes. The pictures pile up every day and they are getting uglier. Rancid gold fish bowls left on the street as offerings. Cartoons are starting to come in again. We no longer have to fear the permanent night.