blood dirt
job dirt
money worth less
polish your picture
or don't
it stains anyway
pole-axed
this way
or that
we must
make do
with what
is left
inward grime
sees
ugly mirrors
a future of
epileptic lights
barrelling towards
certain death
because we
are
dirty
and the clean ones
are rotting
with the rest of us
beneath button-up shirts
and ironed pants
we stand
huddled together
shivering reflections
of Bradford night
so we pull our
black overcoats
closer
tighter
impossibly lost
in
society's
dirty
fingernails
This poem was previously published in the chapbook 'The Streetlights are Beckoning Nirvana' (Analog Submission Press)