you are ticking the subscription of a shotgun smile

the restless reminder, the stranger behind you,

twice barrelled quarantine of lush glories

tar fingered around the ringed copper, broken and unworthy,

smoking in the buttoned up knowledge of hereditary tracts,

winter tracks and the plastic penance of a youthful slaver

“x” shan't mark the spot where we shall bury you

a shallow...

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August spawned a raging storm

four nights we watched our TV burn

we wrung our hands in shock and shame

then looked for someone else to blame

gazing over the fresh grown rubble,

the long term surplus of borrowed trouble

it begs a question with which we must wrestle.

if it’s only the threat of burning petrol

that makes the truth of now more palpable

...

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