I might be invisible

I might be invisible

But there is no hiding place

In a heat haze

Sweat runs down my face

I am a candle

Melted wax

The noise of the midden

Sullies the silence

The pain of displacement

A constant accompaniment

To the drown

Of old fears

In the moment

An occluded sun

Is eclipsed

We are godless.

Nothing remains

Of the image

Other than its memory

Every mirror

Will choose a different reflection

To commemorate difference

In the crush of ideas.

A marketplace full of flies

The buzz of conversation

Bartered in digression

The sale of souls

Leaving a trail of destruction

A fruit stall laid waste.

Costermongers

Shout the loudest

They all live in little boxes

Smelling of oranges

With a hint of ginger

Especially on a Friday

When the devil rides out

For a lads’ weekend

Of debauchery.

For stags

Turning the world upside down

Is a free pass.

The market is

Owned by the slaves

Until machismo kicks in

And the bidding war begins.

Beluga is

Too rich for some

After all

Eggs are eggs.

Loose tongues wag

Like fishtails after a night

Stuffed into a

Barrel full of bad apples

And cider vinegar

Whilst I use pale shadow

As cover

To slip through

A slew of bright sparks

With poor definition,

Invisible and unnoticed.