Ballad of Will Killingsworth

He used to hoard his poems in a plastic bag –

They were heavy but the burglars threw them on their

Backs with the rest of his life – fill the cracks in theirs

With more crack.

 

Later, he came home and found it

Gone and worse, his poems taken, and he knew that

Somewhere, soon, they would decompose in the stink

Of rotting  food.

 

Nothing was left, he had no insurance, he had

No chip that housed anything good he’d ever said

With dread the sink dripped and he thought how stupid

He had been to put his poems in a plastic bag that felt like money.

 

[To be continued]

Beggars all

The culture floats
In and out of
Any tiny
Fibre we call ‘I’

As it repeats,
Relish spills us-
Darkly we tap

The floor for new sights

Other people’s
Trash comes at us
With scraps of Right,
Written in Life

Tramp steels herself
To approach us
For a tenner
To loose the cold.

We give over,
Forget the gap,
‘I love you miss!’
Not a bad lie.