Garbage strike.

Garbage strike.

There are bin bags

In the corner

Next to the recycling

Pushed back against the wall

In deepest shadow

Creating images

Bloated bodies

Stacked up

Ready for the furnace

Piles of them

Waiting for Hades

And shallow graves.

I don’t believe in Demons

But the smell

Of rot

The acrid, eye-watering pungency

Of death

Would smell as bitter

On a dark night

With a cold dead wind

Biting at my heels

I should have worn socks

There is no movement

Other than the flutter

Of my stomach.

This could be so different

Under a full moon.

The night is cleaved with

Cold bright light

As a streetlamp

Splutters into life

I do not pray.

Blue electricity

The smell of ozone

With a sidebar of sulphur

Brings to mind an abattoir,

The gates of hell.

I am at my station

Waiting for the blade to fall

Until the light

In the hall

Comes back on

And all is revealed

To be well, and

Within the normal range.

The worst of it

Is in my mind

Which is full of sludge

And minced meat

Once again.