Tuesday, 24 May 2016


Paint the low flying ceiling
to cover the smoke jaundiced cracks.
Anaesthetise all feeling
to forget the faux forged facts

Melt with me in the house of glass
with an espresso shot of oil.
Cackling so crude and crass
as the landscaper tears up the soil

We need more wood for the decking—
sure, just add it to the list!
Pretend this isn't our home that we're wrecking;
pretend that our children don't exist.

Monday, 9 May 2016

Cold Tea

In the cup's chamber, a teabag infused 
and was decidedly discarded - 
happy that it could make the brew strong.
Perhaps enough for one more use,
never as satisfying as the first;
and though perhaps enough to quench the thirst
nobody once those last dregs loose
and left lying for far too long.
And so the teabag, so lowly regarded
was left cold and then politely refused.

Infected Light

Fragmented amber light
regurgitated by the lout loitered lamps
sprinkles down through the frame
of a plastic window
[off -white and cold;
yet retaining no cooling comfort]
and brittle leafs, tired and defecated
by the smoggy air.
The light spills up to the sky
and rebounds through the shook-up Earth
- as if a glitter globe -
covering any mystique that celestial sphere could draw
so that even stars and the moon
are just emergency exit lights
of a broken bed-sit.