Ambrosia

You are the mint sauce of god,

the piquancy that makes

the mundane meat palatable.

God cannot live on bread alone,

a plate of gravy is required

for mopping mutable mater

in soggy white sliced.

Predator

The Night Amy Died

The night Amy died;

it was Janis night,

Jimmy night, Jim night;

a lady smoked a cigar

outside a bar, had her

shoes delivered by car.

The light that burned,

so bright, got turned off;

it was Nina night,

blue moaning night,

no irony lost on the

punch drunk public.

Roll over long servers,

well behaved timers;

its was Amy night,

she entered on a bang

and like we all will,

exited on a whimper.

Hacked Off

Never been phone hacked,

never had a sword to fall on;

like never being stalked,

a bit of a disappointment,

a failure in some way.

Not a municipal figure,

not stupid or greedy,

don’t need the impossible job,

the polarisable public

on side or on board,

just getting on with

the unasked for adventure

squeezing what exotic foam

the sponge will dribble, into the

communal washing water.

Kind of Red