By writing this for a poetry competition
about the end of days,
about the end of days,
I’m colluding with spiritual genocide,
vicarious, of course,
vicarious, of course,
all perpetrators’ hands clean of blood.
There’s nothing cheers the disaffected more
than bringing down a world that’s rejected them.
For twenty-five pounds I’d betray my species
For twenty-five pounds I’d betray my species
with a spiteful sentiment classically columnized,
Gleefully we consume apocalyptic blockbuster,
comforting as other rituals and routines,
atavistic fears anaesthetized
knowing the scenery and lines by heart
by visual flippancy of mass destruction in 3D -
annihilation at one remove another ruse
more food to fill everyday void,
doping us
by imagining the worst
by imagining the worst
prevents the worst from happening.
Childless, vocationless, penniless,
devoured by empathy for one I loved,
devoured by empathy for one I loved,
mouth full of sour grapes,
I am not a reliable witness to the end.
The world in me is dead already,
its beauty seen before,
its stories all told, the magic casements boarded up.
Through the window I see ghostly rain
blown like a mad woman trailing veils across the lawn
under an exhausted sky;
contrary man-made wet and cold, out of rhythm,
confuses birds and plants,
dispirits us.
My mother’s old hibiscus plant, totem I have tended,
is alight with amber flames for a day,
magnificat that leaves me cold.
Online, I read our rulers will bond us like serfs
to owners with shares not employees’ rights;
by statutory mistakes or predestined order
the poor are getting poorer,
and innocence is murdered yet again,
as a man weeps for a moment’s aberration
found out,
repenting lost reputation
more than perversion of the sweet hope of the world.
Every time a child is killed is Armageddon.
The greatest fear is not the end, but living on.
(The poem didn't win the £25 prize, but I'm very grateful to Forward Poetry's enlightened editors for publishing it).
