To the lighthouse

Please follow me to the lighthouse:
there we will meet our horizon
in a parcel of endless sea.

This where the soil is soiled –
our future is written in oil
(read it through your gas mask).

I shall drag you along,
you my silly,
holding onto your severed arm
picked up in Russell Square
one freezing night

walking towards a McDonalds
that will always be closed
when we reach it pining
for the cheeseburger-graal,
ice-statufied, half-satisfied
for another year-long winter
we did survive, didn’t we.

We did – did we
(oh oh really?)

And you who had to smoke
endured much more than us
underneath a black coat.

(It’s always black you choose –
please colour up, my love thingie).

Yeah I don’t know why we do this.
Dunno dunno,
Dumbo Rambo.

Quite so.
(Quite. So?)

Quite every single time we said,
‘yeah I don’t know why we do this’,
nudging each other’s severed arm
from Russell Square to Tottenham,
we sighed
‘we know we should buy gloves
for the cold fish fingers
we left in the freezer –
and why do we linger
in this death zone
by minus three? – I do worry
about our life expectancy, my youngs,
my friends we know
most expertly how to destroy,
how to blow up the blabla blah
(give us a but-
-ton we’ll push it
till BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP and ash
across the tainted sky):
and let’s not kid
ourselves:

of course we never thought
the bus would come on time.’

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

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