We trade in handshakes
of ghostly currency.
Spectres melting into
leather office chairs,
£1000 shoes propped up,
hard-heel tapping mahogany.
99% scrabbling at chicken-feed
pinching news items between their fingers,
screens harbouring wipeable perspiration,
when long before it disappeared,
between pages of law and righteousness.

We’re told its empty:
The comfort of the Euro feels
nothing like the £’ing of heart
against heart with an embrace.
But clammy and desperate we
compete to live for techno-respite,
sharing our global position
through social media machines
and laughing at funny tidbits;
something to disengage the brain
when you start wondering why
your bank account haemorrhages,
and your neighbour has two new cars.

We trade in misinformation,
skulduggery to chug
the oil and gentle fucking
of the 1%.
£6 shoes propped up
against IKEA furniture
and the age old question
of free-will.


Deluge myth?

Sympathy will keep you dry
they say. When sand and bones
can’t keep out the tide.

Silt and dirt, ring damage
under carpets, floorboards warp
and strain under foot but kind
words vacuum, rippling gently.
Removing streams of the Thames
and piss. Soothing Wailing babies
and concrete Faced elders.

Your insurance money is no
good here. Not when heirlooms
sink and photos disintegrate
into shreddings. Wedding rings
slip from fingers finding their way
into mud, fossilising for future
unfortunates. Watch as your life floats
at eye level and people just

comment and comment and comment.