zest a room full of winter 

Juicing a storm for April's fools 

Fifty litres

Is the product of patience 


Wipe the altar 

May the God of small-batch 

Relativity be pleased 

With my hand-made in Hackney hackery







Upon her 




That turn the scent 

Of citric acid to egg


All I need is a sieve


Pouring pulp

From a height 

Releases volatile gas 


I ignite the room 

With the smell 

Of rotting sulphur


Can't remember her smell

Flesh turned grey 

Dressed in green


Fifty litres is what we need



I will be out by 5 


Home time used to be 3

When we ran down spiralling stairs 

Into a balloon-like bag of a heart



it's just time to depart 


Nursing hands that throb

To the anxious bass 

of a bag-like brain

falling out of shape.


Wrap the bottle around 

Recycle glass no end 

Spirit so sound. 


Let me borrow it's resilience.

A few shards never hurt no-one.  


Quarter past five

I got big headphones on. 


Don't they know we need fifty litres?! 


How I wish it were thousands 

How I wish that life were just lemon 

Not these segments of flesh

Tortured in the physics of process


Contrast neo-pagan nature worship

With elders from way before the slave ship 


I wear a beard and drink piss for breakfast 

Roam around in antioxidants 

I'm anti Oxygen. 


Is the jihad so different?

They’re all seeking

some kind of authentic


some meaning experience


Re-discovering the ancient 

distil it’s sediment 

Bring me the unprocessed 


No filter 

I can see clear Under the filaments



in between remains of sand  

Flown in and out by drone 

from who's homeland?


Inflate the price of oil 

like Quinoa in Ramadan.



am a post-modern frontiersman 

Slash Democratic Aristocrat

Gentle gentrifier

Of brown-filled brick


What do you believe in?


She replied

I'm a raw foodist

Eighty three percent vegan 

Used to be veggie 

But then I cut dairy 

This blender now

Digests all my food for me 

I mix the rest with

indigenous chromosomes  

rare specimens of saccharine. 

Downed like shots

To get a deep cleanse 

There's an online shop 

I can refer you as a friend 

You just need to type in this code. 

can you help me un-code 


This ancient recipe

From that place you still call home? 

At least tell me what the Arabic says

You're from Acton. 


No I’m not

And I can't read traditional text 

I know it's dread 

Some days I get vex

My family (couldn't) didn’t teach me 


They wanted me to fit in

and now I've booked this flight out


There’s no place for me in your economy 

you’ve democratised Saffron, Turmeric an 

and Pomegranate Tea 


Plus these days you need a degree 

Just to juice lemon 


(they point at me) 


I can't read your instructions. 

I'm under instruction

not to speak to -


Manuka honey that's blessed in Yemen 

Maybe that’s the answer?


What do I know? 

I'm juicing lemon because, nature.


I seek out the abuse of her nature.

Not mum, the other one - 

who likes to have Manichaean fun


Mum they said is from


She was the first girl in her village

to ever ride a bike 


And that's nice.


I guess that was her nature. 



The possessor of drinks

Her nomenclature.


I’m juicing lemon because 

I’m no longer there. 


I Never was. 


Yet they had lemon

And then that thing is here. 


So I 

Lemon zest a room full of winter. 

Juicing a storm for April's fools. 

Fifty litres, is the product of patience. 


Wipe the altar 

Prepare for citral slaughter. 

May the god of small batch relativity 

Free me 

from my amateur insalubrity. 







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