Seasons

Blot your eyes,
stub your cigarette.
Shut the windows to the
sparrows and mockingbirds
trying to escape from the cold.
Icy silhouette in the winter;
we never learnt where the
snow was coming from.
Who’s got the attitude for
yuletide seasons anyway?

Spring blossoms and the cherubs
cry. Open the windows and
let birdsong cycle through.
The horror queen chokes on
pollen, this is her last chance to
shine. Glossy pages and sad
displays, pictures of cultural
genocide – we've got one
last chance to die. Unplug that
radio, the time has come to cry.