Simon MacCulloch

Welcome to Orangedale Park.
Here is the lightning-burnt oak.
There is the brook, with its dark
Chuckles the crumpled cans choke.
Watch for the dogs without leads 
Roaming the razor-edged grass;
Watch for the prowler who bleeds
Rainbows from eyes of cut glass.
Somewhere a radio plays
Songs made of chocolate ice cream,
Melting the minds of these strays,
Slurping them up in its dream.
What are you looking for here?
Nothing; you wait to be found,
Blown into bubbles of fear,
Blobbed like old gum on the ground.

SIMON MACCULLOCH lives in London and contributes poetry to a variety of publications, including Spectral Realms, Aphelion, Altered Reality, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Reach Poetry, Black Petals, The Horror Zine and others.