The Eyeliner of Separation.

There are some things I see everyday

Which never get old.

There’s a smoking bus driver who hasn’t learned the year we’re in.

Moustache of steady.

Bald men of shadows, who I have to call human

And the woman in my office, who insists on

Using euphemisms, ‘dirty’, ‘loon’ and ‘passed on’.

I could never imagine her having a conversation

With the 38 year old goth assistant in the shopping centre,

One with the purple hair.

Depressed. I hope not. Born in 1974, she’s had the chance to get out,

And her mummy had already gone

By the time I came along in ’91.

I think she saw my eyes through the glass wall,

Customer and stranger.


There’s a lady I know, she ever gets old

Probably has a depth I can’t access

But she studies to be a professor in gender

And gives her daughter fairy boots and braids

The eyeliner of separation.

She can’t disguise the shape of her face

Anymore than the tree needs a haircut

Dampening the world with chemicals.


I don’t need anyone to tell me

That the smell of god is the must of empty halls,

And the hormones of the minister

Who is sexy for my soul.

It might’ve taken a while

But such things don’t surprise me


And stranger.


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