It’s that humdinger comedown,
In the back of our minds
We’re driving meat wagons into rainbows,
Sectioning clowns in the eye of a storm,
Chasing vampires into the sky
And singing our war songs.
In the here and now
There are percussion troupes playing,
Staring out into the aftermath madness,
Alone in a monochrome box room,
Slumped on a window sill,
Watching a glorious misfire all tangled,
We are bruised and over-ripened,
Soft bellied and worried.
Mayhem sits throbbing
On the reverse of the city,
A cornucopia of sun bursts and screaming,
The rioting of the forgotten
Is ongoing,
An angry earthquake of thoughts
Smeared on the back
Of a million torn postcards,
Flapping across pavements
And spinning down side streets;
A b-side apocalypse
With sinister echoes,
‘Beware of the coming!’
Sunk in the flipside of paradise
All strobe flickered greys
And pigeon-holed thoughts,
It’s a new flat world dawn,
Gravity drops amidst the sighing
As puritans tip-toe
Through our guilt,
And the juxtaposed worlds
We create in our hell holes
Sink into dribbling
And afternoon cat naps,
Growling and smothering
Odd dreams across our eyelids.
We have feet in our stomachs
And fingers in our brains,
This is nothing
But a Sunday all bent.