Passed presents
Despicable, reviled;
Piled on yellow parasites
Cold dark nights sliding down stairs
Steps too much
A similar stream, dreams, intentions blurred
Savouring, puncturing continually broken values
Flattened like roadwork signs
Crushed by budgets
Chained to railings
Iconic and forgotten
A brief and seething tension
Brought down to levels of grappling
Wrestling your under arm fragrance
Torment sold to build up arenas
Cold hearted money men
A web of industries
Built in cages of glass
A pyramid of functions
Locked in desiring deluges
Flowing like treacle melting
Hanging from trees
Like dead man’s had keys
To turn open groping darkness
Flashing lights in finished laboratories
A sold part of history
Mayhem and pressed laundry
Folded but not forgotten
With torn and tatty parchment
Eyes departing from sockets
Too worn for mending
Just condescending
A paraffin fire
Guarded by smells and torchlight
Warms the company of complicit criminals
Copyright Patrick Turner-Lee 29th December 2015
Poet's Corner 
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