Creased

The window melts,
Steam pouring warm,
Nylon throat gagging soap,
My iron beats board impatient to glide out,
Over dust dervish sparrow squabble,
An old man bends a slow jig with the pavement,
His dog ancient and mummified grinds arthritic legs,
Scraping the ground slow as you like,
No hurry time to burn,
Creased sucked screaming back,
A dazed shadow skating on polyester,
Chintz cat dragged sideways the pile engulfing time,
A trail pursues its destroyer,
Darting through carnage and disdain,
I scrape it together,
The clock ticks a metre,
Captivity,
Worn patches grow as I watch,
Outside the endless change,
Separate as a picture.
Fulfilling its purpose,
My epitaph,
She made clothes flat.

On the Couch with Mrs Persons

Mrs Persons is hypnotised,
By sound like a headache,
Strutting through my head.

Gawping at the glowing white angels,
In tattooed makeup,
Serving rainbow food,
From a cloud kitchen,
With a life resistant surface.

Mrs Persons longs for virtual babies,
Dancing in remote controlled nappies,
With perma-smiles.
Are you in debt?
Get more in debt,
Buy a holiday with the spare debt,
Read the small print,
Don't forget, but don't get old,
Age must be surgically enhanced,
Botoxed, dyed, exercised, and slimmed away.

Mrs Persons will live forever,
On a diet of friendly bacteria,
Low fat celery plus added vitamins,
Her bodily functions,
Will be replaced by colonic irrigation,
One less job for the mortician,
Should she loose the battle for eternal youth.

Poem Cat

Like velvet syrup,
Cat pours down from the shelf,
A delicate paw,
Ruffling feathers of water silk.

A poem wrote this cat,
Dipping its self in the cream of her fur,
Painting delicate whiskers,
On a half seen face.

Poem Cat concerns herself with the universe,
She tiptoes across the keyboard,
To a meeting of great minds,
Leaving the dream of cornflower eyes,
In jumbles of consenants and vowels.

The Face on the Envelope

Your hands are slim yes,
But not like a models,
Thin and dry like a twig,
A sapling dried by desert wind,
Oh and your eyes,
What eyes they are,
Deep as moon craters,
Sinking right back into your head,
You mock haute couture,
With dung coloured rag,
Your wounds I think must be inside,
With little water,
You cannot spare the tears,
Consumed by cracked earth.