An extract from: A Day in the “Life” of Kenicky
Here, at last, I hear
a gasp, and rejoice – is it hope?
A voice tells me: nope.
Another dirty dream
about capitalism, and the sheets
are stained with poverty.
The mourning: open the curtain,
maybe go sole searching;
find a toe, behind my neck,
aching at half-mast.
At last, out of bed: breakfast;
out of bread, so have
uncooked toast instead.
I eat cereal with petrol instead of milk
because the taste is more refined,
although my car won’t start.
Ironically, I hitch-hike on a milk float,
paying petrol money
seventeen voodoo dolls,
each resembling the queen,
if she was shaped like a coin.