Creativity, the shape-shifting beast. The will-o-wisp. The Northern Lights and the breath of the dragon. The guiding star, and the countless years between. The lady in the lake. Cigs, booze and poetry. The lonely, half-pissed walk home.

The half-written, hand-written poem. The file on my hard drive that never made it. The LED-backlit lyric in letraset. The words that make no sense. The words that make all the sense. The words that take sense out of the agenda.

sense is a place where the cattle graze and the chickens roost and the singers sing and the smoker smokes and the ‘papers lie and the fatcats laugh and the immigrants are taking all our jobs and the immigrants are taking all our benefits and the muslims pray and the muslims are prey and the muslims are preying and the muslims should go back and the muslims have been here longer than you and the drinker drinks and the maker makes and the people are sad and the people are angry and the chickens graze and the cattle roost

Sense is nonsensical. Brexit is brexit. Nothing is free.  One is two. Two is too many. No-one is free. And three will probably get you arrested.

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