- Domesticated Pigeons -
The heat bounces off the tarmac and through the shop window.
I’m sweating.
Even the birds are bathing in the gutter puddle hot springs.
Plastic scrunches around a detached wing. Lifted from the pool.
This wasn’t covered in my CV.
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Maggots spring off its feathers,
Like home grown Olympic darlings.
All receding to the backs of pubs and clubs,
When their time on air is up.
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It feels like he’s pissed himself.
Sweat dribbling below his trousers,
Glistening at the interval between pant and sock.
It looks kind of hot,
Like those greased up necks on Peking ducks.
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Hanging in the open shopfront
Are all delivery boys and private drivers.
Yearning to push upon the rubber under
Client’s cheeks
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Or feel their cold coin in hand.
I’d take them out back, to the bins
And throw them hot chips.
Squabbling over the last crumbs in the box,
As if it will bloat their stomachs or float their dole.
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Prospective investors,
Blow kisses my way.
Asking about the empty lot in the alleyway
And for me to put in a good word.
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For me to put out.
All the winks and love handles handled.
Age isn’t object nor obstacle
When nestled in your breast is an American Express card
And an abject lawyer.
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We don’t get off on time.
I can’t get off at all anymore.
The last bus of the day, routes away
From being bedded. Straight for bed.
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Angel says my boss is a cunt.
He’s only made me cry twice
In front of an audience.
I didn’t get a standing ovation,
Not even a handshake after the show.