Ill Heaven Zero Four

by grimbeau



NINE is eight found wanting
stale orchids splutter
pure airways overnight
no second breath come first gasper
justice thirsts as curfew drains
March makes aether culprit,

flittish snide barbs niggle
vindictive zests defy belief
–when will words fall petal free?
consult yond inner demon seed
that insufferable bore that force feeds you
breast fed by orphan shovels
drives me wild eyed to distraction
shot drops me like a polar bear
found seething raging glowing
sliced through by sabre sleet
on a dodgy asphalt shoulder starving

never got so far that they could fake my name
before the pants were pulled down
and the sacrament began
blurted it out in dribbles and spits
little old me in a market town alley
who would have thought
it would happen there
over here of all places