Be He Alive or Be He Dead

Creep past

the sleeping guilt-monster

curled up in a stained duvet;

do not disturb his fitful slumber,

for you won’t like what he’ll say.

“Any spare change?” he’ll ask,

before puking between his knees.

The students keep their distance,

angled away by several degrees;

the workers frown in concern

‘One missed payslip and that’s me…’

 

Nowadays, the trolls

under the bridge

won’t eat you –

haven’t eaten much in days;

flame-cooked

the fruits of their labours

and fed it

directly into the crook

of their drowning waves

…until bruises, rot

and collapsed veins.

No more vanity.

Starved of attention

since infancy;

whet

nursed

an appetite

for self-destruction.

 

It’s the inaction

that gobbles you up.

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