Point of S(t)ale

in a darkened building

she is behind a counter

there is a long line of shadows

waiting on her

filling the space with decaying breath

she feels around for a screen

or a till stashed full of money

nothing is switched on

she is helpless

but the shadows refuse to leave

with their yellowing nails

clutching this and that

a lot of time has past

the urgency makes her teeth grind

they only care for themselves

she lies on the floor in desperation

they can not see her there

she knows it is childish

she is tired of being gawked at

despite the feeling that she is in trouble

it is a relief

unusually soft too

a body grabs her

she sits up

sticks her hand out

on to her bedside table

the counter seems to vanish

with the realisation

that her partner is embracing her

from behind

in their double bed

far removed from registers

from customers

her heart beat slows

she is in her favourite place


it feels like the shadows linger

always wanting

always waiting

unrelenting servitude

in an unending cycle


O Where Is My Feast?

O where is my feast?

 Where are my pitchers of wines

Being generously drunk by

Intellectuals and swines?

Where are my bards from far off lands,

And my servants

Awaiting my spit flying commands?

 O where is my feast?

 I grow tried of the roaches

That squirm in my bed,

And the terrible thoughts

That lie in my head.

The cracks in my hands.

The pain in my neck.

The constant demands,

And lack of respect.

 O Where is my feast?