In another room
An age away
Rips the night apart
We curl a tune
A line of thought
Limping like a broken dream
To drown, face down
In our puddles of beer and tea
Washed ashore in perpetuity
on our islands of cakes
In those valleys of skunks
Through a portent,
Diverse from ours, away,
Reaps the rewards of climbing the stars
Of sacrifices moody and unwholesome
Compromising breath of the soul itself,
Each in reward for renown
For compensation so vast and improbable that
merely reaching the heart of others,
Has immeasurably enhanced
The quality as well as status
Each of us – in this other world – enjoy.
Some blurred echo of those thoughts
Retain a tenuous grip in the
Blank planes of
My particular memories.
Forging bearable apology
For having squandered
And exhausted such energy.
The night before the work starts
Our streets echo with lone travellers
This night of cold clear dread
As the new year shakes free
Of it’s champagne and fireworks
A mighty muted still
Fills up the dark
And in the raging dreams
Of all these people in their beds
Uncertain and alone in today’s cold sleep
Questions of fragility
Feed our hunger for dread
Spoiling this last bedtime
With what tomorrow brings
Outside in some dark corner
Of a Southern London home
I ponder how few deaths make many mourn
The slaps of conflict beat
Fresh tears from more bored eyes
Yet each hour too much life
Is bled and crushed in horror
For one more year has come on us
And forseers contort with doom
Such angry rhetoric, such mounting gloom
Yet this new year is not foretold
And harbours chances new
There’s not time to conjure lies
Just time to start the world.
The marvellous mendicant mothers of Mope
worry about weaning their kids off dope.
Haplessly harried they hardly hold hope
of finding an answer that isn’t looped rope!
Round here the rising sun breaks slow the cloud
which builds through the night
– from the fags dark allows,
yet, none of Mopes mistresses notice,
that newly a day is born
– sweet, fresh and proud.
Surely some sapient soul serves to sate
the confusion of questions one’s sure to negate,
in diurnal dialogue done direct and to date…
or so you’d suppose, in most all other states.
Here though, in Mope, the mothers are clear:
we’ll have no free thinking ta! None of that here!
Perish the thought of fresh views or ideas
and hold your big books from coming too near!
The plan goes so simple (it has to it’s true) –
the brideless of Mope know all that they do;
that learning from lessons is theirs to eschew!
Our proliferate pups truly think this their due.
So work on you earners, as hard as you can
Build coin for your country to feed the taxman.
His pennies and coffers are spent
– the grand plan:
Dished out to the mothers
who need what they can!