Blood on flashing dancefloors;

towards the courts of monochrome

our killer slouches home.

 

Time is running out, I'm suddenly aware

and the poetry flows -

and so it goes...

 

The beauty of grit is retrospective.

 

Strawberry juice on chin

swallowed in one breath

over a mis-shaped tattoo

 

Tattoos last longer than love;

ink is the blue kiss of death.

 

Is there any grit in a black hole?

Or is there a hole lot?

 

A long road to a high-rise flat;

strawberry blood spills as the knife sticks in.