He sits
Photogenic
Ready to f*ck
Your wife
Your children
Aged eighteen-plus
….
My news feed
Al-Jazeera’s
lively pump
widened beyond
guardianistia’s sump
…..
I have reached
That bagged-age
Standing still
Staring at pavements
…..
Our wood burner smells
Like girls, I once’d loved,
But, perhaps they took me
With wrist-measured-love
…..
Shades,
I need,
This short-lifted
Mission:
Escape from
Winter’s
Cold derision
…..
Dumped, field-cast,
Cold-dead fridges:
Rust-touched monoliths
Of consumption’s riches
…..
I don’t think I’ve penned
Verse,
’bout Jeremy Hunt,
Possibly,
It would be,
Couplet-affront
…..