I’m sweeping up your worries
They’re going in to bags,
I walked a week to market
And slept beneath the crags.

I heard that there are traders
Who buy and sell our fears;
They hide behind disguises,
They whisper in our ears.

I’m sweeping up your sorrows,
Flung from a coastal talus;
The market’s shutting down,
Love is now the ballast.

For Sale, Not For Sale

There is to be no writing, nor catharsis,
When an elephantine memory for detail
Is imprinted into the meta-tarsus
Where you put your future up for sale.
As a real estate broker the devil was dressed,
For the part he kept his everyday clothes;
The boards went up, buyers impressed,
There was some mention in industry prose
Of the hall which housed your missing soul.
Death by broken heart has a ring of poetry,
Outweighs misadventure or suicide’s hole,
Or takotsubo cardiomyopathy.

I placed a thorn behind my eye,
Beetroot blessed for routing the devil,
But the thorn took seed in a leftover stye,
And there he shaped his revel.
Passed a parcel of illusion
Through life’s spiralling petal,
Semi-conducted an earthly confusion
Using pieces of eight-pound metal.
If all I see is a construct,
Then death is the engineer’s basket;
The fable-stuffed hepatic duct,
I am removing this house from the market.