Soothing Walls

 

Iliad

 

Brexit like a stale fart stench
red miasma churns the august milk:
turns said milk of human blindness
rancid as a cheesy bishop
genuflecting to a coup d’etat
Big bad money must go somewhere
when Savonarola
corners the art market
at once and for all comers

A Purple sky portends floodstorms down west;
morning shadows simper on the wall;
pound of flesh worth a jaded euro;
no second world status
between first and third storey
these days down at capital records.
At dark at four-thirty
in a curious museum;
be in no doubt blue mummers
will step on your faces
just to get their own way