Portential Poem by Alexander Hawkins

Internal combustion engine exhaust noise encroaches on my sleep.

The first punks of principle could've used a dash of turpentine,
wash out their prickly pride there and then before the next generation
came along and left all the lights on.

It's never really dark in London, not outside anyway.
Pollution of every persuasion - noise-pollution, light-pollution,
mind-pollution, pollution-pollution - I just want to puke.

Stick my head under the pillow to escape - unlock my portential.