blue blood

It’s winter.

The cold has seeped into her bones,

her internal organs.

Sometimes, when she attempts to

siphon a hint of warmth from a

spot of coffee or black tea,

she remembers the icicles that cut at her

stabbed deep,

and caused the light in her lips to sink

into the depths.

words misspoken,

actions vile

from

the sniveling coward

the noisy narcissist

the bitter court jester

the coin-operated boy

The wounds closed,

invisible in daylight,

but beneath the surface a dull blue flame

persists, covered in the sooted remnants

of jagged scars haphazardly healed.

It is still uncertain whether the cells will regenerate,

once again glow, warm, pink with life.

For now, the hazy grey bitter breezes in, lingers,

threatening at any moment to spread,

like a cancer.

new year, same story

His knees
press against the cold
cobblestones of carelessness as his eyes watch the shoes of passersby parade on
in a blind and straightforward manner.
A coin or two is all he asks silently,
a mute plea.  
But there are none to spare,
for all are destined for restaurices
and the bottom of countless empty litres of Pilsner.
The glutton must be sated,
for the Samaritan is asleep in his armchair, feet by the fire,  snoring on
in champagne infused ignorance.

no more, Mr Jones

I sit here counting crows
scavenging through the grass
outside my window, but every one
reminds me of you.
Their feathers are oiled and dark,
so they might look sleek.  
They spread and ruffle with
extraneous pride,
eager to look larger than the
limits of their form.
The incessant call of their caws
seek to keep me from
forgetting their existence.  
Glorious in the certitude
of their superiority,
they cry on,
and i keep watching,
desperate to see mere birds.