appalled
by the
beautiful,
bourgeois,
convict-hewn church,
frail branchlets
meet and pray in a tree —
the chill wind
shakes them free,
wild empathy
inoculates the atmosphere, slashed to shreds by helicopter blades,
atheists have more
in common with God than with this charade, and
I shudder as at the
thought of silver paper in the mouth,
while the dirty lake
of humanity glisters like wet hair
in the glare of a
shamefaced moon,
which hangs around
like a nurse on her first ever shift,
and what am I to do
now,
and where am I to
go,
unable to afford the
meanest hovel in the housing bubble,
and it is cold as a
mortuary freezer,
as the world turns
into a rose cottage, a rainbow’s end, a deadhouse,
as the quality of
life is slowly degraded
by the leaches of
economic medicine.
"as the world turns into a rose cottage, a rainbow’s end, a dead house"...what a great line/sentiment. Economic rationalism should have been in its death throes by now....
ReplyDeleteI like the fit of the title and the poem, a lot.
ReplyDeleteThis made me read and reread
ReplyDeleteVery pleased it 'works' so well! Thanks to all. :)
ReplyDeletesome great images in here.
ReplyDelete