Charlie met Esther on abortionist roe.

Hedges neatly trimmed – enough to dishevel a bearded vagabond to weep after his latest woe.

No coat hangers to gut the newborn sac.

Charlie stood for hours until her number came up.

Raging

rouge screen screams with a tremulous beep.

Surreal

Conceal

Unable

to strike the star lead role in a Bolly wood film deal.

Unsullied arrived in a cumulous cloud

stricken by a thunderous compulsion to wail.

Esther didn’t hear the bond lust, lilted scream.

memory hazed -by two fat ladies at gate number 8.

Efforts disarmed – inability to count down to the primal odd.

nebulous chlorophyll masked her mouth.

Envy immobilised to an unrecalled dream.

Innocents smile

swinging on tyres.

Freddie Kruger caught in a static slumber loses nightmare credibility to a sterile clinic;

Action paralysing every unconscious scene.

Stratham, London-night defends to keep watch.

Both stumble upon a tidy little room – 1970’s style. No disco defiblerater harmonizing jolts to the beat of

‘ Staying alive ‘

Old granny hoovered up flowers chocked in ivy a patterned carpet,

Mist of lavender lingers. This bitch knows how to spray.

Don’t mess with the O.G.

Peppered, seasoned hair, non-linear lines carve out a facial narrative.

Don’t be fooled by this kungfu hoe.

inebriated illiterates

desensitized to her strategy in a game of cruel cluedo.

It’s all so normal. It’s life, you know.

Scissors ready to stab a beating heart,

Positioned in foetal

Sucked out the uterus.

Pro-choice.

Pro voice.

Pro-life.

Pro midwife.

Tall walled wars.

Bricks bolster the Illusion of affairs in order.

Nobody is scrutinized so fiercely as the woman who maps out her own destiny – navigates the boundaries that her ideas can afford her.

Quality control.

The NHS paid for a private eye.

Two signatures deemed sufficient to see her through the hours of her sobering silence.

Shameless in her flowered disguise.

Ginger nuts, unsavoury tufts.

No, this wasn’t her nine month due – no ice cubes for killing in the name of freedom to govern her own vessel.

No need for pro-life Stepford wives lies.

Sins anoint.

Sins accumulate.

Where would our saints stand without a dissident at hand?

Society sits down, protest proudly.

Part the veil of clouds

Peer piously downwards,

ready to strike thunderbolts of judgement.

Rain down booming terror tactics.

Esther cares not for their gospel band

Society sips, exhaling wafts of fair trade, Ivory coast coffee beans.

Privilege smells of a modern holocaust of starving babies in bony mothers arms.

Who said any of these women consented to consummate?

Penetrative obedience to the phallic statues erected in morning glory psalms.

Civilized society!

What if God was one of us?

a scripture in the making.-

Touch and kiss the sky.

Would he become the true reflection we see, when we catch ourselves about to exhale the final breathe before we die?

Fantasies always signed off with a silver lining and promises of a rainbow.

Reality is cold,

winter serves a plateau of ice.

Frigid flowers are frozen in angst,

Shatter

like glass.

Rebel against their reproductive nature.

Air,

breathe.

One full gasp.

If only a mere raspy rant leaves on its depart.

It’s either them or an urban jungle of homo sapiens collecting another free day ride.

Ready to infect ignorance on every global ocean that has shores that go out at low tide.