Foe forest, faux forest

fee-fi-fo forest.

Where giants hurl

their broken stories

from broadcast heaven

to stone cast ground.

Real, this least of things.

Inarticulate metal arms

pluck down your dreams, to

place within the flakes of

soul slow dying desiccation.

Sick insects wave.

These metal poles sway

clamped to roof and breast.

All point as one, their

martyr fingers show.

As minds walk psychotic in 

their circular days.

To stars and planets 

that orbit our night sleep

late night drunk deep on

their celestial milky ways.

Antennae wave hello.

Behind smudged glass walls

as we sit and stare

into this aquarium hell

of our own making.

As we spread across

our furniture of 

forked cartons, plastic 

and messy despair

We start to take on

our corrupt story.

©️ Dai Fry 4th May 2020.