Iain catleugh hutchinson 1 of 1
your grotted mouth merchant smooth
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 twisted avarice
these words onto your face
stamped I don’t want
that shit on our throats
snakes & ladders or bullion ice
I peeled from you
think you can drink forever
on some cordoned fence
this is my night of glass
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
seeps from every pore you see
it will cost nothing, veto’d
like my wildest wettest dream
i flooded back into you
through the smallest crevice
self-triaged a disarmament of
ombudsman's you for me
comes out dawning round your throat,
the hallmarked dent of your hearts royal
warrants finale choke
