there’s the constant 
of motorway traffic
there’s the hum 
of a fly 
or a wasp 
or a bee 
there’s the machines 
in the 24hr factory 
I’ve run out of things 
to verbalise
the flower inside me lilts
like a man
before his monarch
or his priest
or his truth
not quite dead
but at this very moment
well and truly beaten
on bruised knees
his head
in the empty trough
with only the brittle words 
of poets for company 
I’ve run out of things 
to verbalise
round spectacles
and a pointy beard 
I look in the mirror
shadows on shadows
paint on the pain
the reds are still showing
the yellows nestle
just above the window
and the blues 
well they hang 
like cobwebs
from my ceiling