Part One
Clouds gather
above a barren
landscape of figures,
beyond orisons
haunting
wastelands
of shattered dreams,
owing shadows
stealing futures
from behind the ether.
The Spider relishes:
‘Family of swans
Shot dead,’
‘A man stabbed to death
For his trainers,’
‘Security guard killed
With a screwdriver
Stopping thieves
Stealing a chocolate bar,’
I walk by
empty buildings
lining streets
of cardboard homes
this, it calls ‘Civilisation.’
Beyond horizons
stratified,
a war on airbrushing
sweeps decadently
the dust of
broken bodies
under deserts
scorched by profits,
from ancient Babylon
to Yemen,
are we not to oppose
rotten eggs laid
by that which eats them?
The ancients foretold
of man communicating
through ‘webs in the sky’
and he would lose
all empathy.
I learn
research is propaganda,
identity
an award
for servitude.
Psychopaths are ever adept
to attain the goal,
hence hypocrites
swarm a lunatic
like flies on shit,
for the Spider loves
nothing more
than absurd
soap operas
celebrating itself.
Mother Earth weeps
for the innocent slain,
the Spider remains
laissez-faire
laying railroads
journeyed by carriages
coated in plastic,
Parisian ideals vanish
into the mist.
The Spider insists
I should laud
self-obsessed lyrics
‘Revolutionary’
in clichéd jingles
ad nauseam,
horror tranquillised
by vacancy.
Marching to its demise
banality tunnels
through labyrinths
of panic,
followed by flies
eating despair
attached to palms,
suffocating in isolation….
Still, it
rolls on … and on and….
I listen to its soundtrack thinking
maybe man can recycle after all?
All the while
Mother Earth weeps
at empty words
on redundant platforms,
poisoned by a Spider
ensnaring all in a web
of Spectacle
termed ‘Civilisation.’
Part Two
Worked all her life
paid her taxes
paid heed to the rules
voted Tory and read the Mail,
now,
amnesia slinks
along a ward,
memories
of falling brushed
into the dark’s embrace,
vultures circle
to feast on scars
and though she cries,
it’s all in vain
for soon,
her son, itinerant,
if the scavengers once fed
get their way.
‘It’s strange being
An ordinary person.’
A lament that fades into the wind,
vanishing like raindrops
in the ocean.
Fought the Great War’s consequence,
despite holding no allegiance
to the viciousness
of flags,
preferring an alternative
anthem,
now,
labours for breath,
maybe he’ll pull through,
I understand
his ambivalence,
as much as it breaks
my heart.
‘I’m happy to no longer
be part of it.’
Musing upon a game
he no longer recognises.
I return
to a future
sold.
‘How has your day been?’
I wonder,
why respond
when I’m unable to say
what you presume to hear?
Today
is a game
I
do not
recognise.
2018
© Percival Alexander