poetics unleashed: city shorts • chris major


Outside the takeaway,
bottles and discarded chip-trays,
mashed meat, ketchup squirts.

beggar (xmas 2003)

That wet sunken face,
its breath hanging in steamy puffs –
spirit being quenched?


The weak morning sun
lights a wall of spray-paint abuse.
It gives the only ‘FUCK’ .


Originally published:
Issue Twenty-Nine
January 2004

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