Words and Films

2020

I am a budgie
pecking on feed from a plastic cup
claws clipped to the cage.
Tastes off.

Outside, a crow is burying a walnut
under a pile of dried grass.
He must feel my envy
as he looks up, swoops
to our window and r a t a t a t s
like a knife on the glass.

The woman baking
a Betty Crocker hash cake
wafts the threat away
with a tea towel

pushing the smell of evanescence

around the room –
one hand blistered red
from holding a freezing tub
of Ben and Jerry's too tight.

She is nervously humming along
to The Sims building mode
so I sing with her,
push some of my toys around,
take a bath,
try to forget.

Munchies

Two stoner girls are pissing everyone off.
They somehow just won three
hundred quid between them
and are using all the money

to buy themselves
fudge cakes, Blackjack hands,
and mozzarella sticks.
They will not stop laughing.

The casino army majors
bury their fists into their brows,
pinch me to remind them
not to touch the cards.

Don't touch the cards please, ladies.

These crying hyenas judder in hysterics.
Sorry we forgot
Sorry we forgot
They place a fiver on the sidebet, hit the jackpot.

The supervisor's head falls off
into his hands, drops
and rolls under the table
out the door, into the street.

Now, a headless man is roaming
around the casino floor
signalling for someone
to call an ambulance, please.

Everyone looks at each other, then at the girls
who laugh even harder, shriek at the inspector
to get everyone in here a beer!

On Fridays, I take the scenic route

through the Arboretum,
nod to tired pigeons
wearing face masks,
the squirrels gripping placards.

Burnt oak leaves disperse
in a childish scatter across tramlines,
clicking their heels in the low sunlight; confetti
celebrating the end of this 2020 summer.

Until next time, you jammy bastards.
With your lack of shits
about when you'll re-emerge green.

I receive a text:
‘I'm not sure if we're allowed.
What's plan B?’

When my headphone music dies,
the muffled blast of autumn
pushes its way over Forest Rec.

Peppered with the glare of six crows,
it breathes:
‘You ain't seen nothing yet.’