Poetry

Silken

A strand shines white,

a glimmer on the darkened street.

The moonlight has touched it,

but its fellows remain that rich brown

hanging down to your shoulders.

Each one a piece of your thoughts,

a ribbon tied fast to the building blocks

that make you.

Old strands gift their being to others,

and then leave.

Fresh beginnings grow in their stead.

Poetry

Brunch.

In my eggcup is a blackened stone vaguely heart-shaped. If I touch it, beads of red rise to the surface to greet my skin. They retreat at the same time I do. The lady across the street hires out coffins. Thirty pounds a day, one hundred pounds fine if said coffins are accidentally buried. Uplift charge, you see. I tap the stone in my eggcup with a teaspoon. Charred pieces splinter off, revealing a soft, pink inner. I dig in.

Poetry

The Button

I see it. The button:

press in event of emergency.

Go on, then, press it.

But I don’t know what will happen!

Ah, that’s the fun of it.

Press it.

If…if you insist.

I don’t insist on anything.

You’re the one insisting.

After all, you’re talking

to yourself.

There’s no-one else left here

now.

It’s just you.

Press it.