THE GULLS

(A Poem)

They are the real reptiles,

Circling and stalking me, 

through the buildings.

They bide their time,

Observing my behaviour, 

Like doctors clad in white. 

When will they take me away

And use me for their own ends? 

The eye, 

A computer dot swivelling

in a pitiless yellow disc. 

The beak, 

Pecking at my body, 

Jabbed repeatedly through my meat

to the bone.

My muscles marked and punctured until I am just a mess of flesh. 

Satisfied with their surgery, they depart like spectres,

back into the hot grey air.

Meaningless cries

Criss-crossing the glass 

And concrete.