Swatches of yellow and blue,

Piazzas and parasols,

On beaches of lime,

Tombstones and deck chairs.

A vein gives way to a blade,

The twang of a ligament,

Copper on the tongue,

Death in the air,

The gods drain the skull,

Like a strawberry milkshake.

 

In the stink of the alley,

Mechanical eyes,

Record his demise:

Torn apart by amphetamine dogs,

The tooth-punctured rabbit,

Spasms its last,

Remembering endless fields of grass,

Twitching eyes that hoped for more,

Fixing downwards at the floor,

Leaking strawberry milk.

 

The familiar scent of home,

Laundry on Wednesdays,

Boot polish and garlic on Thursdays,

Saturday, sea salt and rugby boots.

 

By sunset, the slurping begins,

Somewhere, the gods are emptying another.

 

Blood on the willow,

Grass on the wicket,

They hit me for six,

With a bat made for cricket.

 

The balaclava quartet,

Croon a dirge from the north,

And cut me like bread,

As they sing for my life.

 

Time measured,

In pulses on plastic,

Cable-ties drawn,

By an enthusiastic,

Cocaine hand burning,

The most perfect of circles,

With the gun barrel pressed,

To my strawberry temple,

Until the knife snags,

On the carotid’s silk,

Making fresh laundry,

With strawberry milk.