Cold hands wink sarcastically
to a warm heart as they chuckle
awkwardly at a – once too many
times repeated – cliché of a joke

Grazed knees, and, palms – still sore –
encounter a slip, trip, and, fall
from getting ahead of themselves

A furrowed brow delves and burrows
millimeter by millimeter into the skin
that left it so helplessly on show

Cold feet cuddle a cold shoulder
all three stand huddled by the smouldering
embers of what once; was

A wry smile remembers where it all went
awry
At the soup kitchen And, hardens
at the thought of soft, toasty kisses
like freshly baked bread
No longer capable of being culinarily
conjured
No longer able to taste
No longer on the menu

That, warm heart, is, now, poor
penniless, broke Back out into the
unrelenting cold
Broken
As it sits cross-legged getting-ever-colder
and, homeless – sleeping rough

This, now, bitter heart, is
mostly; not sleeping at all
Begging for change
But, really it is begging for things to go
back to the way they were
Begging to be whole; again

Begging for you.

Most of the time, I’m lost.
Most of the time, unfound.
Most of the time;
I’m wishing,
well,
to be 100 leagues,
underground.

Most of the time, I’m stuck, thinking.
Most of the time, vanished, sinking.
Most of the time;
to depths deeper,
than the Mariana Trench,
where light has never,
been seen, blinking.

Most of the time, unweeping, hurts.
Most of the time, trapped, inside.
Most of the time;
I feel ashamed, and, upset,
that, oceanic tears,
will never make, a risen tide,
of these long, deserted eyes.

Most of the time, pain flirts.
Most of the time, teased, all over.
Most of the time;
on dates, unmedicated,
in dated, conversations,
on dates, wide-awake,
and, inundated, when sober.

Most of the time, I dream of freedom.
Most of the time, I dream of peace.
Most of the time;
the dove I am, flies high, away,
to escape the closed-eyed, cag-ed fact,
that, eternal slumber’s, reaping,
will be, when I’m, finally, released.

There’s a river between us.
Because of Cromwellian features.

Not the Trent,
nor, the Shannon,
but, the Styx.

There’s an ocean between us.
Because of how far Cromwell, still, reaches.

Not the Pacific,
or, even, the Atlantic,
but, the briny depths of my dreams.

This insatiable thirst for the water of life.
This famishment for the salmon of knowledge.
This yearning, and, longing to know the refugee struggle.
Of, an, escaped to Mapled land, fleeing brother.

Causes painful strife, coloured; red, white, green, and, orange.

Living at the bottom of the great Hungerhill Road,
my solemn footprints become late, hunger-killed souls.

Underfoot;
the drying puddles are the dregs,
of colonial bloodlust never sated,
the littered grain is the leftovers,
of a famine fed on hatred.

Tiocfaidh ár lá, brother, and, bonne nuit,
until our souls meet again, full, and, free.

In, an anaemic, ashen, Midlands’ city.

Iron skies, are filled, with;
grey buildings, grey faces, grey office(r)s.

Bluely lit.

Grey tarmacadam, is, trampled,
by, restricted, infantile strides. Chased,
by, those porcine protractors,
with truncheons.

Peel-ing away, at, schoolchildren’s,
stunted development. Stunned, flinching youth, is;
tasered, arrested, killed – inside.

On a street, called; Sorrow
Road…

…short-lived, and, long-gone,
stroll, hand-in-hand; synonymous.

None, are reimbursed, for, their fugitive time invested. Except, Charon.
His payment; a poor man’s shilling,
atop, each eyelid.

Wreaths of lies, are laid,
on, a graveside curb of pity.

Enthusiastically.

Alongside, the strewn, bygone,
neglected:
wishes, dreams, and, promises…

…of, a, faux delighted,
blue skied, rosy nighted; tomorrow.

Which, became,
our; missed, and, leaden today.

Our; misled, kidnapped, unquickening fate.

Our; hopeless, picketed, shade of Pale, beyond.

Adolf Hitler hated Jews.
And, I imagine, Barbara Windsor,
hated Muslims too.
I don’t know why…
Mind you, Peggy,
off Eastenders,
had the same haircut as my Nana.
And, she hated anyone foreign.
Isn’t it amazing,
what stereotypes can do.