Grinding Cogs

Peeking, and poking, and prying.

Fingers and eyeballs and pins and needles.

Crying babies and sobbing old ladies,

creeping and slipping their way into the square.

Little white circles, euphoric sensations,

pilling in like a motorway.

Redundant and proclaimed,

bitter faces swimming in a sea of pretentious Gods,

masquerading as good will.

I bend my face towards the sky and take in the clouded mass.

I fuzz and say:

“There’s music in the clatter of the clogs”.