The Junkyard Souls

the junkyard souls

I saw a man so emaciated 

that the bartering of chemicals 

had ceased in his head.

he moved with abnormal trajectory.

devoid of speech and defective 

of personality. a rickety

metal skeleton, uncoiled and spoiled.

unused and long unseen.

his fists coiled + uncoiled like tin foil.

he was without defense and without attack,

hardly there, hardly anywhere.

hordes of men like this,

men who have sucked themselves 

dry of humanity and bombed away the Sundays. 

the machines have always lived alongside us,

unloved and lonely, they watch the rain 

with steel tears and junkyard souls,

already drowning, almost there.


rats on Oxford Rd

I got off the train in a panic  

I staggered down the steps 

in Oxford Rd station.

in my mad scramble

I saw a homeless man 

curled over, limp and lifeless.

half-dead from drink, drugs, women

or loneliness and tough times.

a mere second later 

I was past him and swallowed by the crowd.

most didn’t even look his way.

well ignorance is rife in Manchester.

and the rat is as common as rain.

such is city life and his problems 

were not mine to bear.

but I looked back at him  

just because it seemed

the people had fooled themselves 

into thinking he wasn’t there at all.