it started by sucking cyanide from the pits
on the edge of a berried desert
brutal emptiness dripped from within
cramping confusing causing seizures
a mexican stand-off between
indigestible lies and unpalatable truth
so shut the gate and lock it
let it stack up wind-driven debris
form somewhere for roots to anchor
let the barriers bloom as if it was planned
that beauty says keep out
I am sand that is better left unwalked

addiction is a word too many
like good-bye or blame
even retrospective makes me want to run
with its inherent threat of cohesiveness
throw the dictionary at it
new words will form from the scattered phonetics
after all language is only grunts and lips
and expulsion of air translated from bedroom
dialects and the sonics of war
the bitterness should be a clue
but hungry men eat anything
even the sap that tips their own arrows
and the beauty of their own loneliness

Selected byJenn Zed
Image credit:Samuel Zeller

Cameron McClure doesn’t exist. He is the pen-name for a  permanently retired civil servant who lives in Northern Ireland and likes nothing better than competitive banter over a pint or two. He believes it will all come right on the night because he’s happier that way and no-one has yet proved him wrong though a lot of well-meaning people try to for some reason.