The street cracked with tree roots pulsing,
the breeze is warm and smells like shit.
An open drain alchemy,
I taste the meat, the waste and the rot.
Old Maids sway to pop music in the Church Hall window,
the slow decline of generation pre fab.
The curtains left brightly wide, defiant.
Zumba: The Osteoporosis Years
Next is St Albans, bolted shut.
The fever dream of Germanus
A Grand Suburban Catacomb for the Unknown Martyr!
Empty as a fart in the wind.
“A Christian Presence in Every Community”
and an absentee Messiah for every Borough.
I spy Lady Mary, forget my schism,
abandon my faith and flip on the tele.
The loose women are conversing at length,
baiting brittle opinions in an oval studio.
What does the audience think?
Does Wayne Rooney deserve a Knighthood?