Luke Dunskey


Ruined state

A black sky.
A marble ceiling.
The crumbling cement cracks with the wind.

An old dog, with gentle grey
under its chin, sleeps on an
overgrown sidewalk.

A half-finished microwave meal, under
a broken chandelier.

Ruined furniture,
once grand, now firewood,
burned in a chimney cleaned
twice in a century.

A creepy smile, as the cleaver
pierces through the pig’s skin.

Shattered mirror.
Bloodied, broken razor blades.
An empty bathtub, curtained with
shredded newspaper.

Downstairs, the boy pleads
“What for?”
Twiddling his thumbs, pencils snapped,
grey hopes.

The strange man in the next building,
With a dozen white pills in his right hand
And a wooden cross in the other.

A deep, mellow groan
From a bleeding heart.
The corners of the streets
Caress it into a lullaby.

In an alleyway, a policeman
makes love to a prostitute.
Her eyes are closed,
belonging to another place.
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