Browning and holding themselves

with a fear, previously unseen.

Their shivers are more easy now;

in a childish, miserly wind.

Leaning their twisted faces over

a black earth: taunting, matte and cracking.

Any hint of gaiety has gone to

the heavens as steam that now

threatens to growl and scream

into a fitting, purple haze.

Nostalgia is of life and mobility

unrestricted; a blooming, wet wonder.

Fearful of firm fingers now:

they only exacerbate failure;

they pop and crumble and race

to the oily, counterfeit tarmac.

the lost dinners beneath our feet
that crunch

in their clumsy fragments
defeatist: it’s all over

that blood-red sun is a rain
storm stuck on repeat and

it does so much
more for my skin

don’t look at me with those
dull, white eyes, and whistle

through crustaceans
your old, white song

forgive the chaos you’ve railed
against and been soundly ignored

i can’t speak for these shells
of men beside me but I’m sorry

Blowing bubbles and
swinging in a yellowing glaze,
these days seem beyond
any bright human phase.

Cider-sweet fingers
blowing smoke to the Gods;
we’re a firework’s coda
us, denimed roughshods.

Beating a rhythm
on a table that leans
we monopolise time
in our halcyon dreams.

Stand firm and sway
while lungs contemplate
days gone in a fire;
our minds infiltrate.