God had Eden

Satan had a pleasure park of rollercoasters

Pac-Man machines and souvenir shops 

(the quests were long 
the merchandise over priced
the hot dogs cold)

and outside Eden 
the traffic stretched for miles
– cars full of screaming children and half eaten fruit
– cars full of fuming parents with half price vouchers stuffed in pockets 

others climbed over the fence to the garden of Eden
they bought a packed lunch with them

a blanket covered in cat hair

the garden was overgrown

the fruit was rotten

dogs ran wild

they made a mental note to write a one star review when they got home

the snow, white
soft like an albino Afro
then the compacted crystalline crunch
cracked under the weight of a human foot.

It snowed sometime ago

you stood there

building the spine of a snowman, rubber soles

crunching the floor below.

The scarf you wore made you look like

the old Doctor Who

which made me look for Daleks amongst the trees.

But there were none which was a relief.

You finished the snowman with aplomb

an organic carrot and

polished stones for eyes.

The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.

On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.

He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and

he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.

Like modern day knights
we muster around a
table.

We don’t wear shiny armour
we wear suits that are 50% polyester
50% rayon.
Our jousting poles are have been

replaced with
nervously bitten biros,
and on a fuzzy screen the MD appears
speaking from a country where the currency is
colourful

but ultimately worthless.

His voice is delayed giving

and talks of mergers, leverage &
buy outs.

But I fade out like a ghost image in a propaganda film,

doodling hieroglyphics on a pad.

From the window I see workmen digging a
hole and I wonder will they ever reach China?

Tea consumption is reaching critical levels,

I am an Englishman after all.

And I won't go out in the mid day sun
for I will wilt
in the summer heat
where my dogs panting
in front of his metallic bowl.

And in fashionable postcodes, across the capital,
Japanese girls in tartan skirts carry ice cream cones
that drip onto their smooth
foreign
skin.

The ice cream slithers down arms,
leaving trails like the
tributaries of the 5th greatest river,

their postcards home
smell of vanilla.

I am eating sweets like a spoiled fat kid
the elated surge of sugar coursing through veins
like kiddy *******,
zooming through  internal tubes
green lights all the way
soon to be shuddering as I pass the summit
and descend,
coming down faster then theTwin Towers

when there’s a boom there’s always a bust

what goes up will always come down
gravity is invisible and it's inevitable

a ghost hanging on your shoulders
the sheer weight of all this.

Boredom flogs me
and time is the vinegar thats poured in my wounds.

I want be on the savannah shooting lions with the sun turning my neck into cracked leather. I would shoot it without mercy or malice I’ll look it right between the eyes then I’ll pull the trigger. I’ll watch the dessert ground absorb his blood. It will just dissappear.

I am an astronaut bouncing on the moon. I have planted bombs in capital cities. I have stolen from museums.