A skip outside my house is filled with junk.
Junk bought with money I didn't have.
You know the kind of crap. Shoes, booze bottles, stuff made in China.
Books too. Read from front to back. Not an answer in a single one.
In that skip, mighty and metallic, there's strata after strata of toxic, jurassic junk.
Poisonous emotions, seven deadly sins. Stone commandments shattered into gravel on the skin.
Years of sloth and envy. Greed and suppurating lust. Coveting my neighbour's looks.
Her joy, his Jag.
And at the heart of it a vacuum.
Belief in nothing at all.
Pity and self-loathing, the sticky centre of it all.
Blame the parents, blame the genes.
Blame everyone but me.
And sit back a few more years, imbibing cancer mix.
While somewhere a hole is being dug.
In a steaming rubbish heap.
Gulls screaming wheel above it. I hear them in my dreams.
A land-fill site for the junk. The junk that is already me.