Hispanic scouser Ian Beale
Dressed in camouflage gear sun bleached teal
Cowers in an ill fitting padded jacket
Giving ample cover to
Hanging eyes, drawn on hands and
Quarter gram baccy packets.
Army cap is pulled on tight, a plant pot
Blooming underground sounds booming
Ears melt like waxy candles under a pyroclastic flow
Of dry air and dead winds,
Whipping past a snotty, blocked up nose.
Call the midlife crisis,
It’s a flag of surrender when the tissue blows.

Short black thistles
Dabbed on stucco by
Paint brush bristles
Stitched of whistling reeds,
And the Midas rumours murmur,
Clog and crystallise in
Silken rivulets of silty lies.
A man made of wet sand,
Carved from wood with tatty, leather hands.
Full moon bags reflect beneath tired, watery eyes,
Pallid irises flicker just like flies
Under hedgerow brows,
A pair of graying gorse bush clouds.

He rises grabbing an orange Sainsbury’s bag tightly,
Rheumy eyes flighty, a burden not carried lightly
But a pilgrimage he must make nightly,
Wake up that puggish stare and
Approach the chiller buzzing brightly,
The cool glow beckons him over impolitely
Shelves are bare, stock is low
Therein lies the rub, so choose wisely,
Snatch that meal deal:
Deep fill sarnie, grapes and iced tea
Grab the carpenter’s cup oh so nicely.