• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 03


Poundshop Guernica, Pablo mused
among hobnail boots and barely-worn shoes.
Darn my socks, knit me a balaclava,
‘No Hot Ashes’ bin, a lamp of molten lava.
                                     Prints of old pictures in brand new frames.
                                     Battles won, memories lost. Old flames
                                     burn dimly behind tattered lace curtains.
                                     Cardboard slumber, future uncertain.
Slits for eyes, pull down the visor.
Rain-washed monochrome dreams
abate and the full palette of misery
nestles in beside her.
                                      Pablo is her knight in shining armour,
                                      he brings a hot drink and a kind word.
                                      What is his, is hers. He’s a forager,
                                      a magpie, a warm blanket, a charmer,
and an unfinished love story of sorts.

Platform hooves clatter on cobblestones
as the world sleeps beneath an eiderdown
quilt or on a urine-soaked mattress.
There is no middle-ground without a fight.
                                     But there are no horses charging here,                                  sadly. Goodnight!