Eating money

Money makes meat

Money makes wheat

Money makes pies

Money makes my

Eyes look up

To see what I

Can buy for

Four pounds fifty

For gut and skin

Atop a gurgling

Frame, claimed

By Nature, part of

Her despite millennia

Of ink and paper.

Money makes meat

Money makes wheat

Money makes pies

Money makes men

Weep for shame,

Heaped up against

The Life they can’t

Afford, makes them

Dive below the bar,

Without the breath

To see a pearl,

Just enough to

Feel the deep

Press their lungs

And sting their wounds.

Heavy Lullaby

Take me over the hill

A round juice-step

Or two, through

The windows of Time

Up the road past

A church burnt out

And shaken by

Bells louder than

Air pounding the aged drum of

Past.

 

Kick me, the meat, now

Hanging low and

Ripe, ready to

Fall with my weight

Of blood,

Resound through

Space. The weight

Of me dropping,

Dead round slab

On the cold floor

Of Day in the

Warm blood of

 Night.