White. No sugar.

No steps touch the earth,
No stones are turned.
At the early hours of the morning,
Death gently wakes me up to get ready.
Her fingers leave a burnt mark on my skin.
My world brushes its perfect teeth.
Above the bed, a pair of huge bright lanterns: my squinted eyes scrutinise the horizon.
Hm, the desert looks the same today, I think, as I swallow a full cup of cement.

Self Portrait

During the night you can hear the screams and yells and howls,
You can smell the feast of the devil in my house.

No pointy stilettos, died hair.
Scrubbed and fresh like a dead baby in the cot.
But essential to my street, which only exists because I say it does.

I have been featured on Neighbourhood Watch.
The best Last Meal request of a generation.
Me, dad, awarded a prize for violence.
Take the medal and swallow it whole like a pill.

Put a bullet between your eyes
Go to bed happy.
My poetry is a criminal business.