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DAZED ANGEL
Her boiled voice gargles
wrong answers to his crossword clues
he feeds her mashed banana
with a plastic spoon
picks out soft centres
peels fruit with a patient blade
tidies her bedside cabinet
every evening before he leaves.
He invents gossip and well wishes
from neighbours that never visit
and repeats the same over animated tale
about a cat she can't remember since
her head collapsed.
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But when he wheels her to
November-bruised windows
there are no words brave enough
to describe their crooked silhouette
wrapped in the scarf of starlings
carving its path toward West Pier
her hand in his, the broken wing
that hangs between them.
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A dazed angel.
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GOOD POSTURE
s
i
n
k
i
n
g
into limp coffee
my sullen body strapped
to a straight backed chair
I sit like a burst toy
w
a
i
t
i
n
g
where I was left
for a uniform to take me to bed
in this room of missing jigsaw pieces
accusingly lit yet poetically empty
wrapped around me like drunk arms.
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JILTED BOUQUET
This town is a featureless portrait
of souls welded to bus stops
waiting... waiting for later
stapled to aggressive denim
and ribbon-thin Lycra killing
time. Killing time under
the seamless smoke ring
that squirms from the pit chimney
wild and thick as a gypsy's beard.
Its poison has pulled the sky
out of shape and left a chain
of broken girls to tout flesh
for black confetti and jilted bouquets.
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