The shutters come up And as the light pierces the recesses of the porch A figure shuffles past the guard “Pint of John Smiths.” The barman smiles cheerfully at me: “Enjoy your breakfast, sir.” The fruit machine nearby is on silent mode As I absorb the magazine in front of me Promising a new order, fresh innovation and a world of free informational transfer in a virtual setting; The old men are 2 pints on. The last piece of toast with the new Digital City The fruit machine pays the wide-eyed tired guy his morning winnings. He moves to the next machine Past the pints of dark nestled in craggy hands. I’m ready to face the day in industrial dereliction To change the world from the formal, classical way. A vodka bottle lies smashed on the ground outside. This is art gallery space. People pay to look at this.