Flies gather in clouds,
Abuzz with belligerence,
Reptilian shuffles patter fast
In soft percussive rattles,
Gutters belch dirty water
And gnarled brassy rasps wail
As the charlatan walks,
A crusty handkerchief
With disillusions of grandeur,
Snapped bones and stigmata
Faked for the rabble,
All blame games and riddles,
Perfidious and goose-eyed,
A strutting distortion
Cooked-up from a hole.
4am greases
It’s sombre
Hostility,
Broken crows
Dance crooked,
Flies rest,
Litter waltzes,
Arrhythmic whispers
Cruise in on the breeze
And the dew licks
Its mumbles of intrigue.
A scarred old bus shelter,
Weathered and pissed,
A place to
Carelessly wither,
Leans in on
Invisible guests,
Slightly bowed to the kerb,
A deviated strip light
Flickering excuses,
A quiver of disaffected
Moths and foxes lost,
Gravel hushing,
A barren street name
And then nothing
But a bent, collapsed
Voice faintly groaning,
Which way is wrong?
We’ve all seen
That excess creosote
Running down
Occasional fences,
All tears and humility,
Fortitude and regret,
And most of us
Have said
Bugger all about it.
Not me.
Slacker Shack