Suburban Terrorist

There’s a hungry concrete-muncher eating up the motorway one row of houses down Don’t tell the council, or, the cone stackers in their reflective vests, that the freshly painted white road markings are all pointing in the wrong direction and I’ve had a gutsfull Trees leer over the fence listening for snippets of wiser recollections from their youth Cabbage trees stick their heads up And pretend they don’t notice any Saturday morning sex in the back garden The moon slowly gets changed behind the clouds. makes up her face for tonight. Still laughing at our attempts to shoot her out of the sky with our Chinese-made Roman candles and other weapons of mass-produced faulty construction.