Monday, 27 October 2014


Can we cut the potatoes with dead-eyes?
Shooting their stars to blindness
Roots choking our mouths
With tumours of manure
An underground fickle-taste
Sweating its odours
Hollow ears ring with thumping
Torn from the mangle-flesh of opinion
And leached of logic and goodwill
Can we excise this species?
Born of acid baths and crushing
And let their leaves wither and dry
In the desert of their own lacking.