Bunches of mint
Sink the stink
He pokes us through
Dung and blood
To hanging skins
Drenched in dye
We pay him to
Hide that smell
In a cool blue
Leather bag.
holiday
God it must be boring
To work in a hotel,
Serving servings of
This and that all day long
And most of the night,
Seeing everything everyone
Eats and excretes and uses
And abuses and all the little
Bits that end up in the bin,
Hearing all the same old
Complaints and compliments
Pasted to the same old breaches
And reaches of etiquette,
Smelling the duty-free bargains
Fused with burnt navels
Every evening, smothered
In After-Sun, day in, day out.
On Holiday
The runway brings wonder,
Breathing its strange breath,
Promising nourishment like
The heave of swollen teats.
In the the car on the wrong
Side, we can’t read the signs, passing fast
The radio means nothing, gushing
Loud then soft, like the sea.
In the old town, new to us, the shops
Feature treats. We eat as much as we can,
Looked on by History, never stopping to
Look up at her stories,
Soon we will be going back, 4
More days of unforecast choices before
We lift off and die and memories cake us in
Nostalgia until we are born again.
Being Every Day 