Anthony Dawson Poems
Comments about Anthony Dawson
Your shanty sits on a hill,
above filth below will.
Shanty of tin and nail,
Corrugated heat traps,
social gaps no halfway scale,
zero then one hundred.
Big bellied little children,
forever interned in the poorest herd.
Your shanty is fact,
not to the many turned backs which look out of the skyscrapers.
I'M A Liar
I’m a liar at least once a day,
a liar who confesses in some small way.
Richest pickings to fall upon,
sailing could never be smooth in truth.
Blood as thick as ice and mind as hard as tundra ice,
sometimes melted to become a tear.