Comb

A man in a shell suit
Bags heavier than usual
Green bin lid doesn’t shut
An arm stretches out
To squash down the mass
Compact compost in neat
Squares of satisfaction
Chewy combs; dessert
Or breakfast snacks
Occupy your thoughts
Processing power not
Required to choose
A diet, pump in the fat
By the camera load
Watch it ooze across
The high street, but
Nobody watches it
Stick to the concrete

Comb

Blink

I think a lot about time
How its dimensions crash
Through the narrow fields
Of rice and wheat
Ploughing relentlessly
Towards the inevitable
Concluding scenes
Stories that end
Hold greater power
Than stagnant mouldy
Soap left against the taps
For baths I never take
Time finds a way to get
Under my skin
The dark nail filed
Trimmed hair grows longer
Autumnal weather blows
Solitary axes to grind out
A life made of the scraps
As if it’s enough to halt
The silent stare of
Juxtaposed spectrums
Everything happening
In one blink

Blink