Woodchip

Leeching hope from homeland to heartland
High on contrail soup in stratospheric headband
I don’t walk I sublimate
Apostle and apostate
Walk the golem heights thus armed
Tug at conscience totem charms
Hung from ears and necks like beads
Shake like frost and rattling seed

If I was coming for you
it would be on leopard’s back
Not for me that girded steel
or this comfort hack

And dogs would howl for mistress moon
Halfway headless anger spent too soon
The wolf at the door framework and pelt
Now it comes to hunger felt
To night patrols and blue-lit curfew
Pubs n clubs numb to curse you
Ready for the waiting queue
Whose faces masked wood to glue

October 2010