ominous



wreathes are being

handed out often,

red crosses make

for doors, there’s

a handprint squeezing

across the heart’s blame



the wires are itching

to tell of portents coming

glitches in the heartbeat,

what usually poisons there is

a more fearful replacement,

clouds menace the mind



did the four leaf foretell?

misfortune is a damp

greasy coat worn by all,

are we going down that

dog dark lane? too late

panics the headline



ironic as a hearse ran

him over whilst heading

towards that enlightened bridge

where the river below churns

white maggots, to jump there

whilst the queue was quiet



something’s not right in the

blood’s manifest a scowl

a shadow with prospects of

becoming a city, the knell

is about to raise the alarm

or shall it be sinister and stealth?



“that dream is over” cried the mother

whilst grieving over her pram of

rust, childhood isn’t managed,

severe news and indestructible

screen attachment issues,

this world causes damage



i’ll populate loneliness like a

deaf beaver in it’s self built town

of splinters, there’s no love upon

the wind, the bluebells nod in

agreement, “here for hope to

enquire it’s truce”



before that diagnosis fell

and the snowflake adhered

room readied where nurses

flow as paint, there was a

trident of voices opposed

but one was compliant



it talked a forceful tide

of a complaint that feeling

had misguided, here i am

opening bombshells and

this daylight shrunk, there’s

a lid that wants all to lie under



taking minutes of what broken

meant, many frequencies are

shouting but none are aligned

to read or at least half understand,

all have worries like nooses

thieving someone’s neck



hackles are warning, i see the

dreamt clock in timeless pieces,

anxiety has it’s own knots enough

to stall a ship from fleeing, the

mouth has borders to be closed

and inwards has fences resurrected



insurgence is only a bare street

away, familiar hatreds are being

brought back like penny dreadfuls

into bad pockets, there are patrols

in the head that only fall black

rain, industry bent over it’s demise



hear the hills swarm evacuees

they are empty of eye and believed

whatever was told them, best to make

such people scarce, hoist up the new

flag “snake upon a fist”, there’s 

fearfulness being taken by the wind



we’ve gone to hell and have red hot

gates to prove it, there is people less

movement, no-one is stood and stillness

a requirement, bad hair days everywhere

collars to fit the throat precisely, hey

future i don’t want prediction at all



go hang your head in a bowl of bleach

or reprint the air that terrible things

come from, make something hopeful

or some kind of happiness certain,

we’re stuck in the wheel going backwards

into pitiful into a conclusion


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