Thursday, 5 November 2015

You Don't Hear Burning

It is anger translated into colour
The blue breath it took to build a bonfire.
Grown men clutching sticks of furniture

In Lewes burns the prime minister
And promises in Manchester
As the sheets curl in the capital
- The mouth of money like an animal.

This here is what we pay for
Life’s series of explosions
Patterned now across the dashboard

A mother brakes her car and sees
Whilst her child who cannot manage speech
Shakes out sound against the night

Of cold routine, ears occupied.
And yet the day is dedicated
The furniture once earned, cremated
Deafening ourselves amidst the colour

The silhouette castings of each other.