for death comes like a lager swig
behind the cricket club
with biscuits and crisps
and the knick-knacks of the world
packed into overnight bags
and the crisp air of the wanting night
snapping like a biscuit
dropping crumbs on tiled roofs
and how death comes is like the sadness of night
glib and uncontrollable
bullet-torn with inescapable cliché
and to find something better isn’t life
but smoking and apples and towels and clocks
Owllight 