One Man
Crimewave
One morning,
by the wild thickets
of an overgrown fish pond,
thirty grey squirrels
lay neatly aligned.
Yellow bleach
seeped from their mouths—
limbs stiff, eyes glazed.
They were seriously dead.
Tiny tombstones
made of paper and bricks
were placed by each rodent
with angry epitaphs
scrawled in sinuous font.
A child shrieked at the sight,
shaking
the leaves from the trees
for a minute,
then she switched on her tablet
sang sleepy lullabies
and simply forgot.
On the high street,
the McDonald’s front window
was cracked like ice.
A fresh ball
of white cabbage,
balanced on a worn cricket bat,
was left by the sliding doors
along with a dozen Burger King whoppers,
congealed and dry.
Then a chorus of bass-heavy
techno
rumbled around town
emerging
from spiked public trash cans
near bus stops, dive bars and busy coffee shops.
Some people recoiled
at the staggering blare,
but others danced like lunatics,
with beers and bongs and didgeridoos
until lunchbreak was over.
Finally, the villain
surrendered to the cops—
fingertips slit
to hide his prints,
clutching a banner that said,
“The world is mine!”
written in broad strokes of clotted blood.
But he was a small-time crook
from a small estate
where kids brawled
in dank stairwells
over cheap phones
and underground train tickets.
And no one cared for him,
not really—
not his filthy mutt
who just gazed
at maroon skies
while chewing the toaster,
nor his mother
who cried
when her teapot got cold
or when the sun wouldn’t set
before the clocks hit noon.
Useless
Jessica is useless at holidays.
She lathers lotion
onto her watery eyeballs
then dips her head in the sand
to shield her bottle blonde hair
from the whip of the sun.
She’s clueless at dinner—
she gropes her buttered peas
fumbles her corn niblets,
pours gravy
down her chest
and then pukes out the window.
She can’t text, either,
she hurls vile emojis,
accents and hyphens
all jumbled
into a blur
of reckless words and ideas.
Jessica is cruel—
she’s sleeping around
and she’s no good at that either.
I filmed her
swapping spit with some guy in McDonald’s,
burger sauce smeared
across both of their lips.
I challenged her
by the drive-thru
and she said,
“I’ve had enough of your insults and the constant gaslighting
about my all-over eczema and my thick monobrow.
No wonder I seek comfort in
cheeseburgers and fries
and a kind man
who just lets me be?”
I have flexible limbs, a rat
eating snake
and a full head of hair,
but not much else.
I’m a weak man
with a flimsy facade.
Maybe I’m the useless one
who needs to make changes.
“Four double cheeseburgers,
and five Big Macs, please.”
One morning,
by the wild thickets
of an overgrown fish pond,
thirty grey squirrels
lay neatly aligned.
Yellow bleach
seeped from their mouths—
limbs stiff, eyes glazed.
They were seriously dead.
Tiny tombstones
made of paper and bricks
were placed by each rodent
with angry epitaphs
scrawled in sinuous font.
A child shrieked at the sight,
shaking
the leaves from the trees
for a minute,
then she switched on her tablet
sang sleepy lullabies
and simply forgot.
On the high street,
the McDonald’s front window
was cracked like ice.
A fresh ball
of white cabbage,
balanced on a worn cricket bat,
was left by the sliding doors
along with a dozen Burger King whoppers,
congealed and dry.
Then a chorus of bass-heavy
techno
rumbled around town
emerging
from spiked public trash cans
near bus stops, dive bars and busy coffee shops.
Some people recoiled
at the staggering blare,
but others danced like lunatics,
with beers and bongs and didgeridoos
until lunchbreak was over.
Finally, the villain
surrendered to the cops—
fingertips slit
to hide his prints,
clutching a banner that said,
“The world is mine!”
written in broad strokes of clotted blood.
But he was a small-time crook
from a small estate
where kids brawled
in dank stairwells
over cheap phones
and underground train tickets.
And no one cared for him,
not really—
not his filthy mutt
who just gazed
at maroon skies
while chewing the toaster,
nor his mother
who cried
when her teapot got cold
or when the sun wouldn’t set
before the clocks hit noon.
Useless
Jessica is useless at holidays.
She lathers lotion
onto her watery eyeballs
then dips her head in the sand
to shield her bottle blonde hair
from the whip of the sun.
She’s clueless at dinner—
she gropes her buttered peas
fumbles her corn niblets,
pours gravy
down her chest
and then pukes out the window.
She can’t text, either,
she hurls vile emojis,
accents and hyphens
all jumbled
into a blur
of reckless words and ideas.
Jessica is cruel—
she’s sleeping around
and she’s no good at that either.
I filmed her
swapping spit with some guy in McDonald’s,
burger sauce smeared
across both of their lips.
I challenged her
by the drive-thru
and she said,
“I’ve had enough of your insults and the constant gaslighting
about my all-over eczema and my thick monobrow.
No wonder I seek comfort in
cheeseburgers and fries
and a kind man
who just lets me be?”
I have flexible limbs, a rat
eating snake
and a full head of hair,
but not much else.
I’m a weak man
with a flimsy facade.
Maybe I’m the useless one
who needs to make changes.
“Four double cheeseburgers,
and five Big Macs, please.”
That’ll cushion the blow.