The murdering angel, almost God’s law,
still washes with felt wine
Which he steals from the sewer grate
out the back of the subterranean Savoy hotel.
He applies the elixir with a wooden spoon
to the stumps of his sawn off wings.
Goosing disgust in a hoodie of contempt
with draggled, sorry hands:
His right is drowned in blue eyed matter,
his left agitates the puffy lips of an event horizon.
Waiting for the tranquility
of obscurity, lurking until nightfall.
The earthly woman he loves
is horrified in advance,
stealing the dark hours
from her shade until his fog emerges.
He blinds her with feathers which he’d saved
in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag,
He blows them with shaking hands,
all glitter and echoes.
Hush, hush, heaven is silent,
the brunet in his head turns to milk.
Grant Tarbard is widely published. His first pamphlet Yellow Wolf is out now from WK Press.