Christopher Major

Yellow

by Christopher Major

Mole was 6 foot 2,

once president of some

chapter in London.

Indian ink crucifix

fading on a forehead.

LOVE and HATE

of course,

and borstal spots-

most joining the dots

getting scum.

Dropped a dollop

of dog dirt

in a pint once,

kept it down

for a ten pound bet.

Mole,

like Elvis

or Kylie,

has single

name status.

Will do anything,

take anything.

The scruffy text

of a wasted life,

highlighted only by

fear,

excess,

and a dirty needle…

HISTORY

by Christopher Major

The men and women

were separated.

Ushered in groups

to stand before

a slate grey wall.

Some wept openly,

as children,

bemused,

clutched and

circled legs.

I sadly turned

pages listing names,

suddenly stopped at

a photo of you:

bloom of red

high on the chest,

not long dead.....

heart shot.....

friend,

best man.

I-N-S-P-I-R-E EXPIRE: ICU

by Christopher Major

There lying amongst the monitored peaks and

@ )))) .

@ ))))

troughs, beeps and buzzers. Your chest struggling to

rise and fall. 'Is' fading surely to 'was', as the world reduced

( . )

shrunk to be adequately framed by these metal bed rails.

FOOTPRINTS

By Chris Major

               They did

                  It for £5

            and two fucking CD’s,

             that’s what the local rag

            said, two CD’s and a £5 note.

         He had bought the CD’s

     with money from a Saturday job,

    one of the CD’s was found discarded

   the other CD, they kept.

For £5 and two CD’s,

he was left in a pool of blood…..

                    CD

                     CD

              CD

           CD

    CD

CD

D

Chris Major lives in Staffs, England. He has poetry in 100 plus print magazines and numerous ezines. His print chapbook, The Lowest Level www.whiteleafpress.co.uk

Free to download E Chapbook Concrete & Calligram

www.whyvandalism.com