Even dishevelled, even in the dog hairs

I find myself covered in, I keep up appearances,

no tie round my neck, will not die by the noose,

no shirt, starched, small black hairs

weaved in and out of the thread, small pin pricks,

unseen but there all over my skin, scatter cushioned,

just pins, not needles, tattoos aside,

I have never felt the need for such barbaric squander,

yet my head is permanently a mess,

I am sinking

further each time, the jack boots in the country stir

and I cannot fight the bastards alone;

hide away, let the feeling of loss build,

I cannot play the game

or hold this diseased smile

much longer.

Ian D. Hall 2016