Monday, 19 December 2016


The year’s worn out.
Just look at it.
A tent’s gone up
on a brownfield site
and that’s where
its days are lived out.

A cracked-screen phone
plays Bowie and Cohen.
It’s sprayed ‘Br’
in front of the exit sign.

It’s horrified
by its own ambitions.
It never meant
to end up
with a can of Natch,
bloodshot eyeballs,
a damp and dogged rollie.

Under the charred canopy
of a petrol station,
it’s hurling itself
at passers-by.
It wants to be loved.

Across the street,
in the fishtank offices,
its progeny swim
to the surface
and bite at it
with gaping mouths.

Tom Phillips 

No comments:

Post a Comment