I am the thief
I write my hatred down,
my love in words which do not say love,
or say hate.
I hind behind both,
wave my flag,
call for attention to things nagging,
like truth in pools of black that thicken as fox jelly,
an oxide wash on pavements,
out of backs and heads of people
braver than me.
I am part of the vile machine,
I am the thief,
lapping the marrow and the black.
With your nose low down
you see the blood pools don’t reflect a siren’s flicker at night,
wells of death in the sodium light.
Christopher Hopkins, was born and raised in Neath, South Wales, surrounded by machines and mountains, until he moved to Oxford in his early twenties. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for the NHS. Christopher has had poems published in Rust & Moth, The Journal, Harbinger Asylum, Scarlet Leaf Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice magazine, Versewrights, Poetry Superhighway and Duane’s PoeTree and the online literary journal 1947. Two of his early e-book pamphlets “Imagination Is My Gun” and “Exit From A Moving Car” are available on Amazon.