Crimes

Fortunate souls hold their frozen ice pops tight

The feeble few dribbled and drooled just at the merest thought

We watched them from a safe distance

To tired to rotate, spin or spiral henceforth

The gutter held us and we slept for a thousand suns

Crampons strapped and stony path sound

We climbed, we just kept climbing

 

He's Wrong

Cranes crushed under the weight of expectations

Museum models brash and bold

A thousand colours, a million folds

Tip Toe through the cells at night, tickle them one by ten

Pound, pound, pound the freezer door, the light is out

Monkey gripped