Red-light di[strict]

He watched them all – and all his

self – day after 

day after night after day; and unright thought, quite as he might – or then again 

maybe might not: and 

so he wondered if they did, or p’raps really wouldn’t, and

why this was and why it

‘cos.

And so every time he walked, and every time he approached, like uncommon roach, 

a red light of slow talk, and then waited on red as if everyone 

read the same lesson each time, like uncontestable 

rhyme, like that couplet you made on just one occasion – a hole in one woman you 

always wanted to fuck, and then such grand luck

would have it be true, and so you had her too – 

and so he never was that sure if to cross right away or not to move from

that spot he would share 

with one or two beasties, timorous elsewhere. 

And that’s when he realised, from wild observation, wild in that sense of really

quite free, not the other meaning of me, that if there are two or three 

gathered at crossing, the law and the vehicles do overpower the people; 

but where there are many, and where the masses do signal

their clear damn intention to cross bloody line, then law notwithstanding it’s the people

who win: the crossing is made by the unfurling crowd, 

and like banner or flag humanity is true to fab natural re

state.

Late to the party, but early to the fuck: and so in the face of injustice

remember your sentiments; remember the life you once had and still love; and never 

forget that 

the get 

of bad law knows nothing about yous: 

nothing about yous –

and much less …

… about 

roar!

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