I write about Stuff

Scratch beneath the surface, and terrible odours rise. Perfumed patisserie cannot hide the mould that wreaks havoc below.

An itch you cannot locate, a spot just out of reach. The source of irritation never soothed by milky balm.

Chemical? Nuclear? Some kind of attack— the delicate veil torn asunder. A thousand years of screams rise on a tide of hate, red.

Above, the air once cool now swarms with bloody clouds. The sun will not shine; winter’s harshness settles, home to roost.

You were warned not to scratch the bubble‑bursting thing, spewing putrid waste endlessly. No more claps, no more happenings.

Turmoil reigns without corona’s warning. Floodgates of fear deluge us with uncertainty, dread, anxiety, panic— opening deep and wide,

once more, diluvian.