A dystopian suture

A dystopian suture

Perhaps there were great men

Greater women

Walking the streets

Looking for pleasure

Finding it missing

Gone with the passing of humour

Hidden behind plague masks

Hipsters paint eyes on their eyelids

Lies are easily told

Nobody reads faces when they are disguised

Only poetry buffs and jazz heads

Fraternize in clubs with blackout windows

Listening to drugged up old hands

With needle marks for brains

The whole world cowers

In dispond,

Waiting in the cold

For the all clear

The war was like this

The old women cry

Huddled on stone steps outside tenements

Wrapped up against the cold with scarves pulled tight

Every voice is muffled

Nothing said is ever clearly heard

Whatever happened to the sun

Before it disappeared in a cloud of dust

Is that what happens when demagogues

Take over the world

I can still find a rhythm

In the chatter of my teeth

Perhaps that is what they mean

By self-love

Dancing to a different drum

Nothing hides in the shadows anymore

Night terrors wait at the door

Withdrawal is a tough solution

Spoiled by the extroverts

Who patrol the streets in convoys

Dispensing justice

From the back of a truck

Is this what you wanted

When you decided to answer the call

To be free

Put the experts in a bag

Line them up against a wall

See which one falls first

Nobody can restrict your freedom

When they are dead

Shot in the head

Because they disagreed

Hey there mister piano man

Sitting in the corner

Like this is an old western

The clock winding down

To showtime

Play that old war song

The one we can all sing

Perhaps we will meet again

When this idiot wind dies

From heat exhaustion

Give it another generation

For the truth to kick in

When the money men

Have fled to the hills

And the streets are choked

With skeletal automobiles

Lost without fuel

Whilst the music men sing a different tune

In the clouds

Riding high on the fumes

Of their own success

Heady days are here again

For the chosen few

With the stomach for chaos

Just not for me,

I’m bound for hell

In a shopping trolley

From Tescos

It might not be rocket powered

But with enough of a push

It should reach escape velocity