These last days before the rains come

I see empty glasses with encrusted froth

Pile up on uneven wooden tables

Wide eyes going late into the night

With no idea what else to do.

Serpent queues trailing out

Of gallery doors

Punches and gunshot

On Zone 3 streets

Mountains of refuse

That we could have eaten

Gulls wheel waiting

For the water.

I see the yellow and black

Insects crawl on railside


Hear a clock tick-tocking

As they buzz from flower to flower.

Information expanding like

A swollen tumour.

Static knowledge

The future is a memory

Artisan food sits impaled

To wood with serrated knives.

I see

Battery nicotine

Empty warehouses

Criminals behind gates not bars.

In these days before the rain

We will live like antediluvial kings

Lives and memories stretched across centuries

And wait to be punished