The last room of hell, with moist walls and covered windows.

A little television buzzes and three creatures huddle in front.

They browse the channels,

and amongst the swirling mass of crime, and hospital drama,

they gorge on moments of death –

The throat’s final release, of thick fear and questions.

Was it worth it?

Should they care?

She stares at her creations.

These empty creatures might agree.

In old Utopia they had choice,

and repetition was fictitious.

Yet in this final cave some kind of

truth was caught amongst

the scraps of television.

A rhythmic cruelty.

The creatures watched how their lies began.

That these people were turning into creatures too

fuelled their thirst, which swung between this old truth

and the new love: a final open cave,

and how your happy lips spread wide.

I thought you forgot to blink

or squeeze my fingers or flick your eyes between us.

We strive to dip our toes in the darkness together,
and lock the door for tomorrow’s opening.

Dark inertia festers.

Foxgloves and nightshades

seem open and offering.

A father cries out at the clouds.

A daughter weeps at her apparent uselessness.

In the tight hole at the end of Hell

they accept their proximity to Earth.

Death: the happy hour.

The silly season springs death

as its sweet libation.

CUT ME LOOSE, the third creature wails.

Away on another journey, when we had choice.

To choose seclusion.

They will return – no surprise – they’ll return.

Battered people; chunks of my blood.

At the death of the country

and when the creatures woke –

a faded stranger,

obscured by the vegetation,

sat whispering

at the dark