Wednesday 16 November 2016

The dark sun of a god
called winter, the winter of our
discontent, unrelatable: Walnut
Whip, fury like an unspoken
wave of collapse, the gunfire cry
of fear over love. Ghost faces
flit across floors of fallen gunk,
America is itchy with mouths,
a single mind- a jiffy of dread.
Voodoo death explodes like

a joke cigar, a clown’s flower.
The wall is a hand in a slap.
The elastic-band snaps back,
always. Mildred rejoices at the
pale, the blue lives. The word ape.

Who are those filthy embers
about to catch? Children with
whitewashed bellies, no picket,
nor monstrous vehicle.
Don’t tread on me. Girlie,

sit back down. Open your legs  
for the tiniest hands. And all along
we knew it was the case. Every
Injun slips by like a day. Oil & labour,
scored like a map- footfall of
terror, complex.