Coughing up blood
Hard pressed to remember what happened
But he had wondered near The Cross
Looking for something worth looking at.
The back streets of his suburb were too curved
And led nowhere…
These were alive with action
Packs of people roaming the streets stemming off Oxford
By late evening
Luke was drunk and awestruck
Stuck to the light bulbs
And glitter bods that paraded like pretty peacocks
He felt surrounded by feathers
Till the hunters gathered cockfight’ reference
Eye sockets punched in
Lip slips for stiches to seam.
An aggressive gamut of WE HATE FAGOTS
Had suffocated him
And caved in.
For some hours he lay there.
Unable to move
February’s chills set in
He was the just bombed