just spoken to
the dead
and

christ but
they sound real
enough

as if
they're only faking
and at any time
could pop
up
musty and
gloat at
their great
conceit

more likely, though,
is that
they cry out–
still desperate
to touch this

spiky, colourbloated
life

around our
heads they
susurrate

denied the gentle ache
and steady beat
of living

we may 
boast that 
we do

but it
is the dead
who
truly know
regret 
 

Lunch Break

2pm london strip show
awash with cheap neon
cocktail and the bright
lights lie of dick
whittington's gap-tooth
whore.

the girls shine with
an impossible to read
golden filigree–angels in
this musty basement, would
they taste as heavenly?

who else is here? who's
come to pray?
this is for them:

the cardboard man
the shining pate as 
empty as his 9-5 heart
the sallow rabbit
twitches as she swishes
the round peach of promise in
his sweated face
the man whose hair smells
of unwash and despair
whose engagement to mother
dear lasted far too long
too long
the sherry red face
the peeling walls await
the whispering silence
the empty room
the single place laid
wobbly table never fixed

they stare
fixated
not on the face or
breasts
but

glued only to
the glint and beckon
of muff and gash and clit and this
and that

not one of them
possessed of what to do

should she
actually step down
from her
lofty perch
and plant it
squarely there
and say...

well, this
is for them–whoever they be
I hope they get it soon
and don't have to just make do

and this is for me
who was there too