Pop Is a Bomb, it Kills.



Night dry as a bone –

Coloured mud in

A canyon of skin,

Shaped like a bending colossus

Paint this

Paint that –

The flower on the floor wilts in the black air.

Outside windows red hot

Tomorrow burns like magnesium.

All papers are thin as life

The guardsmen watch

Helmet half aghast –

How to picture frost

From inside the eye.

We throw shapes

Up into the air

And hope they stick

As velcro does in a skull


Art fair,


Mister toy psychopath

Cut from plastic

To photograph like marble

Skin like cling film

Taut over milk

Sour in the sun


Fly here,

Fly there

Bounce up and down

Mr Moustache on the greasy handshake hand me down


I turn up at the openings

Like the child that something happened to -

No one is polite or rude – just bored

Arms fight for space

The painting on the wall

Looks too dirty

They’ll buy the wall instead

Flying it continuously around the world

Taking photos –

Thumbs-Up like idiotic sticks.


Pop is a bomb. It kills.


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