I don't feel anything.
I believe what you say of me.
Her I am, feeling again.

Council coin counter padlocks the  door,
**** here no more they pronounce.

The lady Mayoress of 1952’s dreams are dead,
How she simpered,
Cutting the municipal ribbon,
Beckoning flys to open for her creation.

Now,
Coffeers in the red,
Fred from the chrome door plated department of the WC’s, bolts the whole fancy and flys zip back up.

Brexit ******* means no exit from our miserly mendacity in the face of civic decline.

“You can **** in your own home”, the local Wig proclaims,
Fiscal pressure means a motion that stops your motions mate.

The council bids your poohs adieu and asks you to refrain from complaint.

Why do you
keep going
back to the ones who've hurt you
wasn't the memory enough?

Why do you
keep going
back to the toxicity
wasn't one inhalation enough?

dear universe,
please let her
be grounded and see
how her energy
radiates through this world
and into the roots of me
that have longed
to be brought back to life

I feel...different. A good different. Like...I'm growing, maybe. I don't know, we'll see.