Moths expertly chewing at the clutter
Relieving the straight edges, intimately
Invading the closet chambers; scholarly
Imperfections hidden in the swathes of
Clothed hangers, straight backed, angled
Shoulders submitting, unthreading,
Holed up, no one listening to their slow
Demise. The perfect purchases unenergised
On a gradual decline into defacement

Getting used to their new look, wise eyes
Held ears on alert to attack.  Held with
Surgical gloves so their imperfections
Would not harm anyone, whereby difference
Remained safely hidden or thrown to the
Wolves, heading for the bin labelled 'Scrap'

Scratting around for some hope of recycled
Remission, getting nowhere. Ferociously
Promoting themselves to be perfect in
Their own way.  Don't ignore my progression
Sew me together, **** it!! into invisibility
And I will work again for you,
Moths securly balled away......

Pound shop,
pawnshop,
amusement arcade.
Spending the pittance of a life that they’ve made
at the job centre,
having it large,
scratting up tab ends,
before making a charge
to the Wetherspoon’s
for the rest of the night,
works even better if they get in a fight.
With their dog on a string,
hat’s probably nicked,
outside the bus station, begging on sticks,
like the world’s cheapest tricks.
Used to be good for a night on the town,
now the streets are starting to
drown
in dross and
distress,
but if you look at their frown, they
couldn’t care less
about your time.
Time to make tracks and drive,
its ‘kicking out’ soon and they’ll
eat you alive.