mal de mer
in retrospect it must have been
pathetic fallacy, for the window to change sheen
every so often: the reddest of whites, dullest of golds
pinched on the same blue broadcloth
o, burning frost! o, petrified wind!
should trace the steps out
dust gathering round soles, crunching,
wading through the streets of london
throat thick with the ashes of an uncertain
past
interpretation, relegation
hone the art of denial to a fine thin blade
justify my place in the land where
the sun
never
sets
but it sets now
(every day, in fact)
threatened with burden of proof
the swarms of ants that fill england’s
magnificent seedy underbelly
she screams and
the howling waves scream back
she moans and
the withering masses moan back
so infested they are, with, of course
children of a different god trying to steal their jobs
the blade lands, fine and thin
no more
but rust covered and water stained and dull
as the same sun that sinks below the horizon
a pooling bloody mess
agonizingly treacherously painstakingly
sawing through clumped veins and sinew
straight to the muscles to the bone to the marrow;
the land heaves and whines and stills
but never mind the gore
🐝 - Brexit who