Addressee to Whatever (Poetry)

Walking through dead
Autumn sunlight
With heads bowed
And suits forever on:
In mourning for the great
Season. And all the while
Taking up time
To ignore ourselves.

Then keeping only fragments
Of what could've been
(the park bench, a rose,
a kiss that never happened)
To remind whatever
That we won't move on
When it will.

Feathered (Poetry)

A cold day
In winter's birth:
We shiver
With twisted
Downey feathers
Wrapped around us.
Maybe doves.

Mountains (Poetry)

Three tramps lay down
With their faces pressed up
Against the pavement, backs
Jutting up into the rain
Like mountains covered
In seagull shit. "Why?"
Muttered the first,
His lips barely moving
Against a thin vial of liquor;
No-one answered. No-one
At all. A thin man - dressed
In an expensive three piece
Suit - strode past the
Mountains and sniggered.

Dope Me (Poetry)

It's all too much,
Like when the children
Scream up at you,
With tears around
Their eyes, ashes
In their fists, and
Poison upon their lips.
So dope me,
Dope me hard on
Kind words, kinder
Lies, and the
Kindest knife -
I'm cattle anyway,
Fit only for a
Fucking executioner.