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neth jones Dec 2023
blood patter and splash                            
leads us         concrete toward
tracing back        til the scene        
i’ve flashing thoughts of the brutality
   the violence     that must of cussed  
  between persons            
         in fear    fray    and inebriation

down the steps                                     
            my four year old child and I go          
the greasing bleed     in bronze putters  
growing and leadening
on stone labours

glowing citrus    the refrigeration
                          of the underpass
          ‘flips the bird'   at the summer blaze
grey dead coral bricks of urination  
seasoned in deep   beading now cold
the broke up weapon                        
                   candy slates of brittle teeth
glass / bottle / beer /brown
    the neck its' hilt              
     and the main mud of the bleeding

the flies are the thing                                
                         th­at bothers my ‘little nipper’
usually a flapper of queries on repetition
no other queries are raised
     just eager for the vibration
      of train carriages gatling over our heads

i stopper any words i may have on the matter
  he holds my hand with his hot hand
we progress under a port arms                                   
                            procession of caged floodlights
      and walled in by fresh graffiti
fingers dripping   retching for the guttering
Observed 23/06/23

unused -

on thickened walls      painted on over and over
by the neighbourhood watch
a  narrowed burrow
Nigdaw Oct 2021
underpass gallery
where urban Picasso's
tag the walls as their own
having never paid a penny
in tax to offer compensation
for their spray paint intrusion
or maybe a **** and *****
or just *******
freedom of expression
being let out from under
the thumb of authority
mum and dad
school teachers
social workers
this is their voice
crying out into the darkness
of the unknown hereafter
that scares the **** out of them
perhaps we should listen
they are the future
perhaps we should be down there
with them
some of us could do
with a bit of freedom of expression
let some hair down
while there is still some left
to let
In the underpass sat a hunched male figure
wrapped in an old blanket
a woollen hat pulled down over his head
beside him his scruffy dog
his sad eyes following those walking by
listening his silent cry.

In front a small sign written in large letters
simply read please help me
a chipped tin mug placed close to his feet
some people showed him pity
putting loose change in before moving on
never asking what was wrong.

Not until that day man and dog were gone
was it noticed the empty space
at the same moment on a lonely riverside
a dog was barking frantically
running alone along the slippery wet bank
where a body had recently sank.

A blanket laid half submerged at the edge
definitely something was wrong
a couple ran oven concerned about the dog
spotting a body drowned
another life lost where nobody really cared
yet sadness they both shared!

The Foureyed Poet.
The man  went unnoticed only missed when he had gone!

— The End —