They watched a woman rot. Watched
as she made like the Wicked Witch of the West
and warped, into something resembling a dead fox,
lying on the doorstep of the care home
where the uncared for are monitored by the careless.
Men in cold suits, the colour of industrialisation
talk to men with hard faces behind desks.
They’re squatting around a toddler’s table,
Pritt-sticking 2×2 mugshots with glitter glue
onto photocopies, for men with sanitised hands.
The mother in the park yanks her baby girl by the arm
away from the old man’s watercolour eyes,
that are looking for beauty in the lonely fall.
She turns a blind eye to his cataracts
and leaves him cold, on the bench, in the lonely park.
The producer sees the last teen of the day
have his hopes executed, like the proverbial lamb.
He’s signed on the dotted line, Faust in a recording studio,
and his eager eyes behind the glass are lost
to the producer with the headphones and closed lids.
Flies feed on the city’s dead, graveyard hopping
as people keep dropping. They gorge on the taedium vitae,
the ennui oozing from ears and nostrils,
the tired, grey cloud of suburban purgatory.
The fossilised let the lost love bleed into the air between them.
For those that are decaying

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