02.07.25
Iain catleugh hutchinson
1 of 1 your grotted mouth
merchant smooth polite tears
on Church Road, Battersea
I look inside your imperial compound
premises that leak & break into your children
you wake washed clean into
14 company directives
& ply the syringe into the new unborn
portfolios marquees
twice out of avarice
these words onto your face
stamped I don’t want
that shit on our throats chubbed
to bloated snakes & ladders
or bullion ice I peeled from your
face you think you can drink forever
on some cordoned fence
this is my night of glass
link by link my scarlet horsehair wig
my starimpaled reprisal
in white ash around
your husk perimeter the unit
of horological excellence
Quisling pig my pained impassioned plea
its sidereal world alarm bangs
a scythe into your back &
the database value of you leaks
from every pore you see
it will cost nothing, veto’d
like my wildest wettest
dream i flooded back into,
through the smallest crevice
self triaged a disarmament of
ombudsman's you for me
its monstrousness
chorus comes out dawning
around your throat,
the hallmarked dent
of your hearts royal warrants choke
