Disinfect

Disinfect! Disinfect!
Can you spray that
Can you spray that spray can?
Hygiene makes a better place man

It’s all in the detailed dettol agreement
See a stain and conceal it
Soak with expenses and leave wistfully
The city cannot sleep through the sequence

Disinfect! Disinfect!
Can you spray that
Can you spray that spray can?
Hygiene makes a better place man

See a street sleeper? Wake him up
This area’s for walkers, no crusts
Of old coins or stains of old clothes
We facilitate cleansing throughout this zone

Disinfect! Disinfect!
Can you spray that
Can you spray that spray can?
Hygiene makes a better place man

There’s no need for you to grieve
We manage the placement of tasteful wreaths
No body will ever be seen
Not while we prowl the streets with our team

Disinfect! Disinfect!
Can you spray that
Can you spray that spray can?
Hygiene makes a better place man

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Disinfect

Meet

Feel the warm flesh
Raw, beating heart
Feel the life leak
Blood stained teeth
The red drip
Taker of life
Animal of necessity
Feed the preying parasite
By stalking, or clinging
Erecting scaffolding
Across the boundary line
Where a fulmination of parts
Cured and smoked
Arms, legs, breasts
Too good to be scent
Craving that charred taste
Barbecued arse end
Free range specimen
Holds two hands up
Passing invisible lines
The sweet taste
Of that first cut

Meet

Ode to a Poor Screaming Child Afraid of The Heat Death of The Universe

I have a primal urge to find a lifelong mate
I’m a hidden treasure to excavate
Thoughtful child of thirty-one
Enjoys self-destruction in the sun
Morosely prodding intrusive thoughts
I like to write lists of all my faults
My larynx works, my posture bent
Still haven’t learn to pitch a tent
Outside, there’s danger at every turn
A mollusc, a man, a lesson to learn
But sod the local earth-centric view
I think about the intergalactic news
A tiny spec of cosmic dust
Who thinks about the universe
How its matter will lose its spark
From my carbon to a tiny quark
It’s absurd to feel a sexual need
To reproduce a miniature version of me
A skulking toddler, leans into my ear
Asks “Daddy, why on Earth am I here?”
I can’t explain the causal link
Between the anthropocene and kitchen sink
Maybe I made a huge mistake
But now I know, it’s far too late
To be the seed that won the race
To fear the vacuum outside of space
I sleep on borrowed time and breath
From a Universe ever nearing its heat death

Ode to a Poor Screaming Child Afraid of The Heat Death of The Universe

Prime

Dead people sing in old styles
About love and being young
At a prime number, like 29
Unplugged and unafraid
A sweet phrasing of words
Hopeful naivety over the
Swinging rhythm and bass
Lines cauterised, verbosity subtle
But never simply ending
By premeditated rhyme
It’s the cut we hear, I suppose
Not the toil and torment it took
Nor the fear of a godless universe
A painful death, and an unending
Downward slope with an
Exponential curve like
An old lady’s spine
Youth is wasted, but fearing
Death wastes years when
A body is at its best, mind sharp
Dexterous limbs seek new thrills
Habits that last a minute
Or form lifelong bonds
Until each record starts to break

Prime

Catheter

I walk. Internal organs
Poking through my gown
Attached via a thin wire
An external body part
Scars show where to fit
The extra storage space
Filled with the same shit
Backing up long corridors
Lonely, but not alone
Thoughts muddied
A coolness to my skin
Catheter connected
To the mainframe
Recharging. Standing by
A quick stop at a plug-in point
I feel refreshed
Can taste the warm
Current on my breath
I’m able to access
The missing link

Catheter

Blades

Sadness is low signal
Not able to participate
In clickonomics.
A fizz of adrenaline
Spending less than
It ought to cost
The component breaks
As quickly as the last.
I’ve resorted to impulse
Buying wardrobes
In the hope of meeting
The man of my dreams
In another case of
False advertising.
Boredom is where
The dread lurks
Nervous ticks keep
Holding the fort
Alive and breathing
Heavy sweat
Legs aching
The weight of
Nothing cutting
Through shoulder
Blades like grass

Blades

Spoons

Art deco buildings
Grand empty spaces
Where voices used
To travel in time
Reflections, finding an ear
A decade too late
Now, just a backdrop
For a seventy-year old man
Drooling over his first pint
Certainly, it’s cheaper than
Waiting to die in chains
Spoons abundant
He splatters red sauce across
The dark-mahogony table
And waits patiently
To make passes
At the young waitress
While she cleans
The words from each ear
He remembers a friend
Long dead now
Leasing old buildings
Commercial opportunist
Shaking hands
In the business
Of doing business
With fleece holders
Woolly rights
“Keep yerr cotton on
It was just a joke”
He coughs
She offers him a light
To quicken his demise

Spoons