It’s not long before the red mist clears
The rosie red mist of returning home
Soon turns into a cloud of claustrophobia
A red raw aftermath of unrequited revolution.
What have we become?
A herd of fleshy, furry gargoyles
Set in stone by masonic gorgons
Rows of disparate desperate pawns on a concrete chess game chopping board.
We beg for change,
Bite the hands that feed us,
Lick their fingers
Choke on their smoke
Slip on their piss
As they swallow our cards,
Consume our greed
And steal our sanctuary
In shameless displays of daylight robbery.
We are monsters ricocheting between fast food and pharmaceuticals
As fat and thin and pale and blistered as we are smug and “happy”
Leaking louted laughs and gut rot all over the mean streets
Tricked into believing that none of us will be left on them to die.
Yet die we will
Becoming mere dust
Just to be trampled upon by suits with bigger boots
And swept up by people better than us
Drills dig and dig into us, the dust
And more and more rubble is piled on top of each bitter building
One British dickish brick after the other.
Bitterness is masked by more sweets.
Eat yourself cold and naked as nourishment will bleed your pockets dry
Pinballs and puppetry are at an all time high
And who can look in who’s eye?
There’s universal pain everywhere
Pretending not to cry.
F l o W S p a c e 