Friday 12 February 2021

Dear Peter John


Inside of eaten rent, milquetoast 

the corners of black mould gently 

scouring loaned iron skillets 

or a life non-scarce cosied 

and out to lunch hasten 

the dock-less night leave me 

in one of the many Royal Parks

surrounded by swan meat inedible

coughed up tributaries to a palisade care 

from bromides the jobless

giblet of gravy of our species the harder 

you shake the pack the harder  

a FF175BP fridge-freezer makes sense, 

on a Sirius rising to singing polymer 

foils its cavity barrier  

crowns civis of pulped Celotex

and the omnibus pudding boils for hours

unattended so stay put rend this dotage,

your fault of sweet whips ding-dong 

a fine divide in net curtains 

or neighbouring skyline of cutpurses 

snapped up in sub tenure 

I go down to the regeneration department

on a countless heartbeat, fingering 

the cool infirmary of municipal socialism, 

faked patronage broken 

my angiograms in rescue effort and watch

the slenderest margins drop

flake on soaring orphans 

with a council tendency support grant 

I am catapulted to the event horizon,

Dear Peter John, A Year in Provence 

on winter oranges swilling 

blood snaps on a pawnbrokers bough 

LTD inflated Roman Law it gets milage 

as A.D chums blow donee the lot

lost in outtage the midnight flicks 

cannot bless me an echo chamber still 

so doors locked quick in eviction time 

Apostle Peter John, O.B.E 

I was the man injecting drugs into his penis 

and it will happen again 

in nuclear light gangland spired 

spare music deep in a bounty corpora

for tillage of Get Living 

everything looks great again