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

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Prime

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

Power

Backseat driving on narrow lanes
Hedges pruned to keep the tunnel
Vision focussed on the greyish gravel
Headlights on. Rabbit caught
By hungry predator, a late night snack
Can’t make out the culprit
Through the dirty windows
I press my foot down, as if I control
The brakes. Fearing we may
Lose control on a corner
Holding onto the front seat
Headrest, pretending not
To be frightened by a man
With all the power
In his right boot

Power

Weavers

Carbon monoxide
Infiltrates lungs long before
The over-cooked smell of
Flesh wafts across the borough
Air fresheners only masking
The inside of every two-storey house
With affordable fragrant air
Cooling down from the heat
Under high Victorian ceilings
Jasmine pleasantly bursts
To detoxify olfactory passages
Clothes circle round and round
Still trying to wash away the scent
But the tiny weavers stick
Agonising as they stitch
The dead into the cotton

Weavers