i.) up the stairs

red scarves and tight skirts

loose slacks and grey shirts

my how the landscape has changed

I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this pot of pretty

where the lipstick liner queens supreme

and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy wretch

so I try a yellowed paper backed beat

but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama

of national care

where the alphabetised gates of ingress

more or less double as departure lounge

fro the broken and spent where their god

might sit them on fashionably backed chairs

for the percentile of misplace repairs

or is it me that smells of warm piss?

 

ii) down the travelator

a troll lives under the MRI,

moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,

now working externally of the fable

beneath the table of the magnetic eye