The Septic Night


The septic night unfurls its wings and spreads its animosity
Across the pitch-blend town, as rancid waves borne deep in oily seas
Crawl up the bone-meal shingle, staining tide lines black with cancerous sores,
And in their plaster attic rooms the cod-heads and the local whores
Play Zee Zee Top through tinny speakers larger than a minaret.
I turn my collar from the night, and light a Pall Mall cigarette
Whilst drinking bile on the wind. The stench of putrid brine in bleach
From Anchorsholme hangs in the dark along the stinking, bromide beach.
I hate my life again tonight, repulsed by stupid little turds
Who breathe out toxic fumes from mouths unsullied by poetic words.
I’ll wrap the scarf about my neck, and hope this vile disease will find,
Like cobwebs broken in a gale, a way out of my cluttered mind.

24 responses to “The Septic Night

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