Saturday morning
And the sun shines through my window
I should be working
But I'm too lazy to go
So I'll lie in my bed 'till the sun warm's the air
Then I'll go out and I'll grab my share
Of living
Saturday's living

                               By Phil Roberts

What are these bodies, these
limbs, giving up their sap
and heat? Who decides
who dies, who lives?

What is cut down is
cut down, and
bereft children
grow in their place.

Dripping with gory sarcasm
The sharpest tongue cuts a dash
The house speciality is cruelty
Naturally
And so, gathered revellers
To the evening's main course
An innocent
A babe amongst blades
Who'll carve?

With glinting teeth and cutlery
Feasting on the lamb begins
An ideal from each bone that's chewed
Is spat upon the floor
And they're snatching and snarling for more
More succulent and pure
Fresh blood for the body politic
Come to the party
Who'll pour?

                                By Phil Roberts

You stumble barefoot
Across thorns
Towards broken glass
Everyday
You fight against the tide
The tide of the tears you've cried
Never going down
Refusing to drown
And all that I can do
Is send my words  to you

                                            By Phil Roberts