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.