Job Centre

I felt disillusioned and rudderless, which seemed like an appropriate response to my circumstances. Cropping warts from my fingers with a pair of nail clippers - 
Soiling the carpet. 
Long faces stood staring at me mildly disgusted, not amused,

Job? no.

Living rough in Manchester – rain - boredom - hunger.

I had in a week homeless discovered – that in places like this I could get

A few hours of warm stability amongst cold prolonged crowds - long-drawn out
Recession,  I lounged in a corner. Noticeable.

A guard, yes a security guard nervously glared not knowing what to do.

His lardy pale face grimacing like a baby farting, 
He began to approach, sluggish.

Today stank mostly of me, that an a artificial-zest, recycled air. And human misery.

The colour scheme - grey. Hairspray. Humid. I'm removed - yes forcibly.
From centre to centre.
Plenty to go around. They're not exclusive. 

A park bench.

I pass an hour staring at ducks, they stare back expectant.

I pass a stone – Oh the library prohibited, stealing furniture, a nasty business,

I can never go back. Weary books too.

Churches – cold and naturally righteous over and under bearing in equal measure,

I disappear into an art gallery. Striding along side Matisse, Picasso, Turner etc. 
Paint, frames.
White walls, and so forth.

Wrapped myself around a radiator. Not a raised brow.

I pass myself off as an instillation for the remaining day.

My title: 'Thanking you free culture'