Person Of Interest

Behind lines of plastic
there stand and sit the
forlorn and waning
stacks of people
and their unwritten
words of wisdom.
Lenses lend their endless sight.

We click back at them,
digesting some response
through a dry throat that
makes silence the
greatest tool at
our disposal.
This is my timeless plight.

In name I am honoured,
revered by the drooling
mass: I am their beast.
Let them throw stones
and cans of boiled meat
through the rain!
Let them sing!

I am a ghost in the
quietest of ways
and when the shutters click
their way starboard
I am only as blind
as their boldest;
harrowed by this and that.
Let them sing!
Let them sing!

Dusted Walls

Drink with cash in hand
and feel the rough wood

under finger and thumb
alternate mechanically.

Music is out of all time
and circular in its bold

endeavour. This is where
my memory is anchored;

this dusty bowl of weeds
and bloated mouth-breathers.

A rustle and a snap of light
before my hands are cold,

wet again. Let’s celebrate
each waking morning as

if it were the first. Wet heads
as if the sprinklers even worked.

We’re forever slurping at sorrow
through time, forever and a day.

Fire Red

Slashed with colour,

the flag, it flies

stashed with a flair

it groans on its rise

and it makes a sound

of cold, hard thunder

with every

stunted breaststroke;

shadows a-dancing

wrapped cord all a-choke.

Lined gold and

bombastic

a chain reaction

of fate,

causation

rotates it:

in this frivolous state.

Crowds line,

gawp up unblinking;

the wise, the enamoured,

the gormless, the thinking.