The appreciation of others lives is interrupted by an advert.
Their online presence which plays like a sequence of a dream
A constant flow of images and words. A film of poetry.

I think. What if everything was interrupted by an advert? A non-stop of unnecessary and unwanted reminders to snap out of whatever we focus and rely on to get us through our day.

It's hurtful. I want to live through the videos of beautiful people , I don't want to be prevented from being comforted by capitalistic crap.

I will bring the flowers
You bring the shovel.
Let us justify our genders in the response towards death.
You use your arms
and
I will use my tears.
I will receive help
but
you may not.
I think you should go back to work
tomorrow.
But I will stay.
I think you will be okay.

Home town

There lies the sea, the rivers, the trees, the sand.
Here I lie in a hammock above the grassy land.
My mam shouts for me as I drift and swing -
And try not to sleep as the chickens sing.

To my home town-
thankyou.
I speak the truth.
I am so grateful to you
through and through.

My fingers are fluttering, and I am slipping the needle out of possession.
It has run away from my touch.
My mind waves goodbye, pursued with a guilty feeling of jealousy.
Clink
Clink
Clink
within the sensual folds of the old sheep’s skin.
Its new existence.
The bubbles of wool smoothed.
Smoothed from the stench of **** and blood
and bruised with vibrant colours.
Finally.
I can travel in which the needle did so.
Reaching into the intense warmth of the powerless skein.
I slip my hands.
I don't want to leave the irritable sensation
which tends to my wounds.
Wounds of a victim
inflicted by the violence of the cold.
My breath is as vivid as the colours I grace my hands with.
I hope to never find my needle.
She must stay.
Stay so I may stay warm and safe within the sheep’s forgotten skin.