DAWN POP

the clouds are torn paper

& the wind
a long & stale
bogarted exhale

setting all the pink roses a tremble

OBSOLESCENCE FURY

its wednesday
or thursday
or friday
or whatever

& tho acid blemished 

in the threadbare patches

with pink shapes of sun
morning is a folded stack
of over-washed towels
gone no colour at all

& up in the tv skies
bent wires tremble
with obsolescence fury
in the wifi wind

& the sentinel shingles

& the bitten pointing

who have seen it all