Flake

Brushing off loose
White flakes, powdery
Talc fizzles gently
Through the air
Leaving a brief residue
Fleeting dust, settling
As individual parts
Where light cannot penetrate.
Blinking cartoon eyes
Wide and white, watching
From the dark, words
Vibrate meaning, strength
To carry loaded terms
Till the boulder flecks its flint
Floorward fleeing
The structural sleeve
It disintegrates to ash
An urn to mourn an ancient feeling
The anxiety of being alone
When people rush by
Without any thought
Off to lick a cool wafered cone
As solid cream slowly melts
In the searing midday heat
The bleached white expands
Spread along the matted grey stone
Spilling out lengthways
Leaving a flake, exposed
Atop the splattered mess

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Flake

Shadow

The bright blue cloudless
Oblivion casts its dominance
Over my furrowed brow
Feeling the heat drift
Into a shadowy individual
Sucking sweat
Mimicking movements
Using predictive tricks
To keep my eyes
From seeing the leech
The blue dome stretches
Across the line of sight
Not obstructed from
Above the valley drop
I sleep more, and find the toil
Too much to carry on
The shade beckons me
My shadow carefully extricates
Itself, in search of a new host
Till I feel half
The bag of bones, relieved
On the cool forest floor
Breathing some life
Back into my springs

Shadow

Uniform

I’m from a time
When green land was punctured
By grey men, fertile
Features homogenous
Blades of sweet screaming
Little land of golden bricks
Shook under the weight
Of demolition dating.
Concrete jungles swung
Through tired old tin roof shacks
Replaced by luxury
Fa├žades, sat high above
The natural eye line
They flaunted their wealth
From the top floor
Cash would have landed
Like bombs, if any had
Trickled down.
We could customise ourselves
In ways future thinkers
Could never have foreseen
But we accepted our uniform
The grey replaced the green

Uniform

Volcano

I’ve come to hate this race
Hate crime faced with no charge
Against the shard splitting
Throats with ceiling glass

I’ve come to hate this faceless
Hate crime game against
Wannabe jacking jock
Without a proper trial

I’ve come to hate this black
And white Hate crime
Hexadecimal gendered stereos
Surround found sound horoscope

I’ve come to hate this fake
News hate crime, shrugged
Shoulders evidence based
Not good enough to change station

I’ve come to hate this feminine
Hate crime mansplain
Grapevine, on bandwagon
Horror at power grabbing by intimate parts

I’ve come to hate this slick back
Hate crime dealing race cards
Like poker games
With higher stakes, lives matter

I’ve come to hate this landscape
Hate crime sabotaged fox
Eats, urban hunt master
Bleats like hounded sheep

I’ve come to hate this
Hate crime migrant flocking shoreline
Birds nest, ocean calm
Punctured dinghy, sink in brine

I’ve come to hate this place like
Geographically inaccurate hate crime
Racism spewing through
Pores, like a leaky volcano

Volcano

White

Five white faces
Huddle round a microphone
To solemnly swear in detail
The cerebral causes
Trauma they’ve suffered
Staring at black ink.
Negative outcomes projected
For a city so far away
It might be imaginary.
Computer generated images
Sprinkled with dust
And power kegs
But if the figures are accurate
It might disappear
Under a hailstorm.
They sip coffee, buzzing
Button pressing
Machine learning to stop
Brown faces in dense areas
Atoms so tightly packed
It might be another big bang
Or an earthquake
Seismological market shift
Tectonic tilt
Towards radicalism
But the rain doesn’t halt
The click of a mouse

White

Pin

He rolls up a sleeve
Perfectly poised
To pull a pin
Sparing destiny
A hard defeat
Gracefully kissing
The hard wood with knee
“Shot”, they chime
Comrades with fists
Bumping off each hit
Like the end of a game
Playing the strategy
If you hit a six
Then we’ll take out ten.
A confident stride
Shirts of nylon
Creaseless, pristine
Dry under arm
Pressure still builds
No scent of alarm
Until the target’s acquired
Then the ball spins from a hand
Strike, in one swoop
Little men dance
Like tortoise upon their shells
No guards to keep
The gutter out of play
Raw emotional crunch
Of ball striking bone
Where a loss means
Sprawling out
Openly weeping
Living in pieces.
Now the game’s done
Breakfast cooks by the fire
The hen clucks out an egg
The yolk, a deep colour
Boys see its hue
Practice their swings
Triumphantly yell
About winning a battle
With an army of so few

Pin

Silhouette

I’d stare out of my window
Across the street
Grown men and women
Baring skin for me
They’d stand
Facing outward
Posing for sordid
Immersive theatre
Hands on regions
Some clean, some
Wild with roots
Blooming colour
Gardens vibrant
Hand held strimmers
Do the bulk of the work.
I kept meaning
To turn on my light
So they could see
Beneath my silhouette
But the show ends
Curtains close
Satisfied neighbours
Becoming intimate friends
Their palms wave
Smearing the glass
Between us
But we never make
Eye contact
In the physical realm

Silhouette