Bruised

tonight is bonfire night
an orange light yawns from the skull
of a withering pumpkin.
in the car park above the industrial estate
disguised by the sound of fireworks
a woman is screaming.
the police have forced them into these
dark alleys to die
away from the amber lights
and cameras of trippet lane.
they go missing.
every few months but it's not our problem
as long as businesses aren't complaining,
their clean-gilled offices spitting out
middle managers with small children
to feed on meat pre-prepared by the sergeant's officers.

there are no sutcliffes here.
just a series of mundane small-minded
suits, workers, salesmen with polished
shoes who coat their seats in plastic
and use those shoes to kick the shit out of
girls on heroin.
because they're an easy target.
brothers, lovers, fathers
driving naked bodies to windswept hills
to bruise the landscape with offerings
to the god of family values.