In the politics of shame, I have no stake.

My state a broken playground for addicts.

Cities are war or never war.

They all look the same for luxury and its fruit.


One of my pieces is
the “unexpected shove”.
A hefty one, in the back or

a sideways dig in the ribs
(explained by yellow grin).
And my “collapse on irritants”:

some shrieking café, indignant liberals –
broadsheets rustle amid complex coffees.
I totter on standing and fall on their tables.

Screams, yelps of surprise.
Floundering attempts to rise, my
front crawl or butterfly strokes

scatter the Portuguese
custard tarts and muffins.
I try to mop up and

explain frailties,”blood sugar,”
weeping apologies; mutter
about residency worries.


© Paul Sutton 2016
Illustration Nick Victor

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