Wet Ink Daybreak


It’s the sort of wet ink daybreak where each thought becomes a chore.
Anaemic clouds above the rooftops suck the colour from indoors.
Half-snatched, muffled conversations on the always-rolling news
Bob and sink like restless dumplings in my half-baked mental stew.
The Duke and Duchess of some shiny place or other have been seen
Patting peasants on their heads in sycophantic feel-good scenes,
While some Eton born economist points out the gulf between us.
I need concentrated coffee, being drip-fed, intravenous.

13 responses to “Wet Ink Daybreak

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