ManicWorld Magazine

I see
Still Lifes
on my walk

an empty bottle
precariously balanced
on a wall,
Lucozade,
with real lemons.

A Coke tin
on its side,
mouth open,
laughing.

A large tin
of tomatoes—empty—
the takeout has used
as an ashtray.

It’s drizzling;
my glasses
spotted with droplets.
It’s cold.

A paint tin
outside the snooker hall.

A chair
in the doorway
of the Baptist Church,
beautifully lit
by spotlights
from within.

And now
the art changes—
becomes a Jackson Pollock:

the council bin
on the High Street,
its top splattered
with bird-shit
from the rafters
of a nest
of a nest.