Monday, 28 March 2016

too late

(ten, nine, eight)

I await Armageddon
not with baited breath but with a resigned air of inevitability.

We knew that this was coming.

The sky darkens and madness descends.
Rational thought is overruled like the
flipping of a switch
in the malicious minds of the masses.

(seven, six, five)

'This is your fault!' the pastor spewed on the News at Ten, sanctimony reflected in the newscaster's sweat stained brow.
They were safe atop the ivory tower at the BBC, as Aunty is never less familial than when the licence fees are at stake.
Direct Debit or all up front, absolution at the low low cost of £24 every four weeks.

'Repent and your sins will be absolved!
Confess to it all, prove you've evolved!'

(four, three)

The smashing of glass giving ground to brick became a reassuring constant.
I used to imagine the fragmented diamonds littering the pavement as rioters stole what they don't and won't need.

And now, right now, the pipe across the basement drip drip drips and draws my focus.
The pool of water underneath it is getting bigger, but in

two, one,

it won't matter.

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