the taste of matches

They move around in the park
Wind killing them if they stay still
A secret bottle of malt pokes out the top
Or methadone (push down and twist to
Remove cap) a Hercules makes a slow
Growl through the clouds. The one with
The baseball cap looks up, spitting into air
The fag butt in his mouth sticks to his lip
The taste of matches in his nose
Whats left of smoke turns into air
The future goes by nailed to the back
Of a truck on its way to York.
The stubby decals nominate his
Skew whiff face. Another one, a tartan
Scarf around his neck, waddles over in a
Parabolic shaft of northern sun
Cremelations of leaves for a second
Make a fortress of his head
They’re talking about smack or who’s
Turn it is to snatch and grab some spirit
From the shop. They move closer
watching the door, making a move when
The last one leaves

Cheap wine & special brew – pegging it down the road

Cordite exclamations, laces of looped zinc
Exigencies forthright in captions of courier bold
Spaced evenly, integrals of pissed light
A shot focus of repetitive motion
Wholly enclosed in artifice
Galvanised labyrinth of gallon cans
Burnt beneath your feet