You look like a constipated lemon

That’s fading round the edges

Like the crusty volumes in Whitehall

Reneging on their pledges.

Your mouth spouts such spurious shit

Your rectum is redundant,

You could fertilise a thousand fields

With the vitriol your drainpipe spits.

But despi...

Right in the thick of it, I’m sick of it,

Seven days of scarlet nights, 

Mornings pasted into white,

As days pass in a flash of spite

And spitting rage at morning’s light.

But painted on a face of joy,

Not more a man than once a boy

And perilously seeking still

A momentary res...

What ought to be, on the word of a whispering lark
that flutters over dew-soaked fields, masked
by the sun's bright, blinding reflection.

Refracted rays deflect the bird's flight
as my ears strain to make out his faded song.
Lost, my eyes scour the tips of the sparkli...