Cladded

Part of Londons burning,
the heart of Londons burning
in a building which
now serves as little more
than a pretty pyre
for the rich.

RIP

Dot

Frayed dried twig fingers knead lumps of pink matter,
Into a bloodied straw mass that grows fatter and fatter.

The donor, a victim that life has eschewed,

Her cold flesh as scarlet as her ruby red shoes.

A needle, a thread – open straw scars are sewed,

as blood drips to the bricks of the long amber road.

Then the murderer sings, with a cheery refrain

‘"If I Only" No longer, now that I have my brain.’