Mechanical Fires

They don’t want to be
Like open gutters,

The filth that washes out
In the rain,

A library of one sided stories
And regretful routines;

So they hide in their homes
And pour drinks down their sinks,

They pull out old memories
And try to colour them clearly,

Whisper mantras when they slump
And slowly tidy up their lives.

They store things in shoe boxes
And file them under their beds,

They try new foods
And flirt with strangers online,

Cry on Fridays
And wallow
All hollow

And wired,

The strange sizzle of pork fat
In mechanical fires.

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