Violent skies

Violet skies be violent skies

These blood streaks on this canvas of grey

Are blood lines

Boundary lines between the here

And where his soul resides

Johnny took a journey down the street

The cobbled grey of these London streets

His black Air Force’s

Armoured and ready

He greets boss man with a customary nod

Exclaims at the 20p rise of the three wings and fries

"Chips, boss man"

Chips

A moment to exercise his adolescent muscles

With the false weights imposed by patriarchy

The pressure to provide even though he’s a child

Stretching the coins he forklifted out of the sofa when mum wasn’t looking

He steps out in his hand me down forces

Each step laughter

As the soles yawn

Revealing the purple spotted tongue Johnny’s toes make a holey appearance

Johnny’s foes make an unholy appearance

They corner him

Hold him to the grates of boss man’s shop

Box dropped

Holy features turn hellish

The last thing Johnny saw was the spilt ketchup on the grey cobbled canvas

All he remembered was

Becoming the very thing he was fighting against