A plastic bottle
Sits discarded at
The foot of a
Recycling bin.

A city bird,
Mistaking it for
Some kind of
Strange fruit, or

Perhaps a meal
Fit for a king
Descends, grasps it
With pincer'd claws,

Then carries it to
Her nest, and sits
For five minutes,
Watching, confused,

As her hatchlings
Gnaw at the label.
In bright red letters:
'Taste The Feeling.'

The other day, I
Tried to eat a
*** of yoghurt.

Lacking the tools,
I called up
To my mother:

"Mum! Where
Are the spoons?"
The fatal words.

Now, every time I
Go online, all the
Adverts are for cutlery.

Frigid buildings as those
That scrape the sky, climbing.
In a place that no-one knows,
Distant bells are chiming

To the shots and screaming,
"Stop resisting!" A rise
In terror betraying
The brittle city's brittle lies.

And for a time we hoped that they
Would never know our quiet rage,
And from the melting lights, we pray
For the silent, now upstaged.

About a year ago,
I quit smoking.

My counselor - a
Firm anti-smoker -
Told me, "Well done,"
And as I left

Her office, a thick cloud
Of bus-exhaust billowed
Up to the third story
Window, and seeped within.

"No smoking," the sign said;
"It's bad for your health."

Do you know, the exact design
Of spikes and wires atop street-signs
And the sort, are to stop
Pigeons ******* on the top?

And yet, just the other day,
A mother pigeon - as if to say
"*******!" to the local street -
Had made her nest up, nice and neat,

Above the very spikes they laid
To stop the nest from being made.
And as I passed, I thought aloud,
"'At-a-girl! She should be proud!"

Amidst the chaotic thrums
Of silence, a lone ant
Rises among the swarm.

Slowly, and with no small
Amount of huge determination,
She ascends the blade

Of grass, and stands aloft.
Overseeing the nest,
She sees nothing at all.

The blackbirds sang throughout midday
Beneath a sky of white and grey.
The people heard their gentle muse
Between the ads and evening news.

One long day bled into night
Whereby the call of the moonlight
Danced and laughed the night away
'Til nightly folks were led astray.

Along, the smoke was blown beyond
The city-smog and withered fronds
Of ravaged trees across the land
Where once the city didn't stand;

And as the sun began to rise
A distinct welling in their eyes
Told them that they weren't so wrong
For listening to the blackbirds' song.

The cold metal door
Squeeaaaks
And swings to the wall
In a thump of agony.

Lever-action. The bolt
Cliiiicks
To the hammer, before the
Brittle door-shavings

Rocket outwards in a
BANG!
Metal shatters like laminate.
In a way, its like

The spirit.

There, I wipe the rain
From my glasses. "What
Is it?" I point out, and gaze
At the tune of my heart

To where the autumn trees
Fold into one another like soft
Lovers, wrapped in golden sheets,
Huddled against the wind.

Not a month later, I
Return to bid Autumn's lovers
Farewell to Winter. But they are
No longer bathed in gold;

The plastic sun, a sort of
Yellow lie, towers on a monolith
Where they once stood. And nearby,
A crude, concrete mockery

Complete with billowing smoke,
And a drive-through, stands
Hot-tempered and selfish
Like a wart on the nose of Love.

The distant cry
Of a black-bird
Echoes up high
But is not heard.

Somewhere beneath,
A rodent nests
In tar and grief
With young in-breast.

And, in valleys,
A crushing guilt
Poisons the land
To bleed and wilt;

Pestilence is
Upon them. Not
A plague: rather,
Humanity.