Tuesday 12th February


Birdsong boy rides a bicycle with slicked Black hair,
Black as the bird that settles on the road,
As boiler-suited bikers round islands of tiny palm trees,
It’s a building site,
Illuminated cranes fill the horizon at night,
An aroma in the lobby,
I can’t make my mind up if it’s bad!,
Infinity elevators that makes me feel drunk,
Followed by suited smilers with tiny brass name tags,
Each of them ask,
“Do you need help?”


Monday 11th February


It’s a lazy-jazz invaded morning,
Breathing smoke,
From the mouth of the woman with the back-combed hair,
Fear emanates from a flat screen tv on the wall,
Obsessions with bad things in lurid colours,
Calling it News like it’s the truth