Bombshell fields
Of human shields
And grieving mothers’ hair
Almost weekly tracky corpse
OD’ed on the stairs
Halfway up to Heaven,
In pissy purgatory
Eulogised in purple paint
But still alive with fleas.
Starchy shirts and unsafe cladding
Button up the babies
With mother of pearl from Savile Row
And columns full of maybes.
Dirty truck
With human traffic
Rotting in the heat
Green shoots
Of poison ivy
Growing through the meat
Binary buffets
Of ones and zeroes
Themselves as heroes
Downwind of
Chemo tears
Pandemic fears
Down-filled pillows
Greased with shame
And dreams of innocent
Childhood games.
Sealing fates at garden parties
Cork-sniffing arty-farties
Freshly-married cheek
For leching in the week
Cigars in golf club frescoes
Cogs rotate in the slime
And saggy steam of changing rooms
Where no-one knows the time.
The resin from the money tree
Sticks to silken ties
Dampened Gazan eyes
Olive smoke and makeshift shrouds
Baalic acid in the clouds
Ferric sleepers in brambled outposts
Save the children first and foremost.
Coffee breath objectivism
Dragon smoke supremacism
Sour milk eugenicism
No chemical broom
Could sweep this engine room
Nor the barnacles from their hulls
Besides, AC, brine and benzocaine
Chart the course with indelible stains
Inside their sickly skulls.

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Read prize-winning short story “Chop Chop” recently published in Writing Magazine.