III + IV

III.
They wanted to scoop out his heart,
Stop him from ticking and from beating,
Between and amongst the faithless he darts,
A gold-grey man paralysed by the din of human bleating
The warring music of grunting, squealing, squeaking.

Squashed faces (like rotting fruit)
Feline grins and clawed waves - purile salutes
Staggering through human compost,
Technicolour seeping from culture lost,
Skinless figures, hairless figures
Barbed like jasper wasps.

And above us all, dormant under heaven,
The moon, our moon - crumpled as a paper plate.
Poisoned and alone, stars awash in brassy, urinal space,
A glimpse into Hell, reveal and revel the taste
Of a place shunned by Ghost, Son and Father's face.


IV.
And for all the neon,
And for all the light,
No electricity could I feel in the air.
As though, everywhere,
The bunched consciousness of man had disappeared -
Dispersed and fled,
Like cruel farmers leaving little piglets unfed,
Like cruel mothers (on trams no less)
Leaving sickly pink babes unfed,
Sore throated Man's thirst for baser instinct
quenched instead.

D.B.B