How Dashing.

Dash at my throat

Slash your credit card

Buy my golden dings

Braison

Gashing my blood on the floor

Stocky limnonym

It’s a bugger to get off

Break me in half

Slicing through

Midnight melody

Mascara drips into

Soar circles

The empty closet is

Staggering

 The saintly hour bangs

I cannot leave                                                                                                                                    I cannot leave.

The saintly hour bangs

Staggering

The empty closet is

Soar circles

Mascara drips into

Midnight melody

Slicing through

Break me in half

It’s a bugger to get off

Stocky limnonym

Gashing my blood on the floor

Braison

Buy my golden dings

Slash your credit card

Dash at my throat

The Butchers Shop Window.

 Starving fingers wipe themselves across the glass.

Clawing at her insides till feet drag her through.

Blood drizzles behind them marking

The time till the daisies bloom above.

Candy stripes smock lean across and

Knows what is desired.

Scrabbling for coins. Count them. Now. Hurry.

The tiny scab of meat chipped.

Only the one? And he seems disappointed in you.

The sunlight dimples as he hands IT over.

Taking nothing in return.

Out. Of. Kindness.

He gives her his eyeballs, places them gently in her breast pocket

And they bulge awkwardly, obviously, bleeding too coating her in him. Staining

 the Last good shirt.

Only his eyes roam free, cutting her open,

As he is a professional no nicks or tears are seen.

Clean cuts that quantify her worth.

Spin like a rotisserie.

Time later the chop sizzles anditstickstohermouthandshecan’tswallowandsheiscryingandshedoesn’tknowwhy.

And The Hunger Passes From Them.  

Where I was now.

Two forests closing eyelids framed with lashes grassed,

Litter scatters the sun beating concrete like rose petals on a dusty bed.

Twist through the trees, leap over three empty graves,

Smiling through the hollowed.

Children scream with precious energy, clambering free.

Guardians stand ready with tired eyes and tired feet’s, a ready meal smile.

Pass through the boundaries of this far away land, right next door to

Grange primary school with pencil lined gated learning.

Track down the mud path, picking at the blackberries. Tiny fingers.

Dodge the nettles stinging for the sweetness.

The devil will spit on them all tomorrow.

Hurry. Hurry.

The juice bludgeons hands clothes, sticky sour taste.

Think on those continually impending winter moths

And the Christmas ice cream, sharp against strudel.

Wait! The green gate. Bromfords lies ahead.

Turn, run. Skip over the creaking crack.

Swing through and past and over the steel security tape.

Plastic Chinese tubs bouncing on our hips like babes

Patter pattering down Friern gardens

Checked purple shorts, visor held together with paint, string and stubbornness.

Beaming cheeks at out bulging bounty.

Can we go back inside now?