There is nothing here

There is nothing here

No beggars to ignore

Poems to write with

Meanings underscored

Emotions overwrought.

There are no tulips

Worth more

Than the roof over my head

Vintage wine

As sour as the mood I’m in

Waiting to watch the sky fall

From the comfort

Of my back step.

No nursemaids

Or kitchen hands

No time served soldiers

Of fortune

Drinking the fumes

From a rubber hose

Tied to an exhaust pipe.

There are no fools

Hardy enough to last

Through a winter night

Wearing nothing but

A Sunderland shirt

When the world ignites.

There are no souls here

The reaper took them

As the moon looked on.

What a sad face

The clown doth have

I never saw the joy

In any of that.

There are no heroes

Just survivors

It takes everything

We have

Just to make it

Through the preamble.

Grifters love to stretch

A proposition

As far as a selling point

Wearing each face back to front.

There are no bad liars

Just bad lies

Every one a death blow

Some take longer to land

Than others

But in the end

They all bring us down.

There are no winners

No scroungers

No whingers

No happy drunks

Nobody is happy

To soil a nappy

Or to be somebody else’s

Baby

There are no good stories here.