Tenement, shuttered shopfront, tenement
and polite despair laid on thick like smog,
abandoned construction site—installation piece—
a layer of grime that’s just divine.
Island complex, people straightforward:
fear and detachment uniting us beneath power
lines where tos and fros go by in time lapse, idly
without cause or aspiration past submission.
Sun’s retired to fairer climes; we tunnel down
and down with the binge, drawn
by constant drone, that sound
more alive than we are, inside or out.
Anything you’re still missing is up there
on the shelf in between the gaudy and sickening,
but that one bitter cocktail, the fact of it all: out of reach.
What’s awake still sleeps, dreams, knows nightmare.
Nothing wrong with your eyes, mate:
serfs in soul to feudal rulers, honesty
to these as honour to—well—thieves, petty kings
for petty schemes, only cabinets instead of castles.
Mind the what? Mind the gap?
You mean the bloated abyss beyond
our grave new world—wait, do I know you?
It’s just, you look familiar.