Black. Blue.

Black. White.

Flashing blue.  
Orange. Red.  

"Fight!" 

Aggression. 
A smile. 

The future here is declared through  
the slow waving hand of a child. 

“Weather's nice”—  

Silver hair shivering at a shop window, 
newly-replaced. 

Mouth-mottled paving. 
Footsteps  
hand-in-hand— 

A crackle of voice received— 
“Over”. 

Door slam. 

Inextricable, 
indeterminable sound  
avoids  separation.  

Approaching tide on sand.

Felix Ortiz-Szewiel

The Automatonical Replacement of the Broom

The Automatonical Replacement of the Broom



       Driven somewhat dangerously by Dennis,

(well versed in recent advances in health and 
safety, but blissfully unaware of his surroundings),

With one arm hanging from the cockpit

                               It fires the sound of 
Impending attack,
With a thick-bristled
Hitlerbärtchen
                               Raping

Rooting—

Flushing out culprits
It annihilates 

With a water cannon
Hidden between bared teeth.

Keeping the road 
Like a leashed 
Alsatian following its
Prey, it threatens 

With a Blizkrieg sound 
And a whirl of spray,
Driving the unwanted underground.

Tomorrow it’ll be unmanned and unremitting,
under the influence of silicone chips, 
                                         
                                           cold,  

unbending to resistance—
But today the hi-vis jacket coughs 

and spits 

and scratches in the cockpit—
to the scratchy tune from the cockpit radio.

The Gravediggers

 
The Gravediggers
‘A spectre is haunting Europe’


Between four walls
A young migratory thing
Twitches—
                 Rhythmical,
Nervous little thing
On amphetamine.

The wise, tall grass pays no attention,
Too busy steeping a head in the glass stream

(Tic-tock, tic-tock.)

But the teenage gulls complain,
Missing out on the action—

Above old mourning doves
Occupying a bench;
Settled like book-ends, in love.

If one should die,
                      what happens to the other?

(Tic-tock, tic-tock.)

Not far away, just a step from
                                            Royal Gala walls—

The pungent smell of coffee, bitter, sweet;
Sliding from a cafe on a narrow street;
Melts amongst a grey and steady stream.

The foreign exchange—
The feuds of family,

Inter-generational conflict—
The baby-boomer stealing

Confectionary—

'Show your hand too early
Your daughters will steal it.'
Be wary.

Steer toward economic viability—
                                           Trust no-one.

Take the advise of tarot.

Pool resources.
Flexible equity,

Hedged,
Leveraged—

Variable options,
Market liquidity.

‘Can you hear a distant march?’
                                        (The gravediggers are here.)
Felix Ortiz-Szewiel