Compost

Pull the pin
Drop a bombshell
This money comes
Bloody red, hard to sell

“It’s not us”, they say
“We’re manufacturers”
But coke dealers deal
To sniffing contractors

Those ships did sail
To warmer waters
In dusty mountain caves
For the honour of slaughter

Pounds still tick
Through the accountants wrists
A limp, sick feeling
No power in fists

When above, juggernauts
Geologically remove
Any hint of a gradient
Flattened, to excuse

The cutting of heads
In underground caves
But youthful anger is stubborn
It releases in waves

They’ll watch with tied hands
Subsiding the cost
Of the shelling that follows
And the peacetime compost

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Compost

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