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Hugoose Mar 2019
Wires from descending elevators whip tourists into buying more than they can afford,
A group of cleaners take worn sponges and grate them against sterile table tops

Tired eyes glaring, so many faces forced into a socially restrained concrete,
Sipping lukewarm coffee whilst a massive woman dives into a greasy papery bag

A waiting room for spiritually degraded human beings,
Who can no longer bear to hold a saucepan
One man’s anxious head makes a turn as he waits for his friends to turn up,
Everyone here sitting in transient seating that numbs the **** muscles,
The only thing that links us together

People making occasional eye contact with one another,
It’s so brief yet so uncomfortable
Another group of cleaners with gloves like loosened condoms
They move in like domestic vultures,
They pick apart every table in their sight

A young man runs and weaves past these tables with hot plastic against his ears,
He’s talking to people who are very far away,
He’s mentioning travel arrangements,
He’s keen to get away

Dried salads line rusted metal troughs
Day old dim sims bathe in ***** coloured oil
Drinks fizzle and foam out through people’s mouths and noses
They look diseased and shattered by everything

People eating here supposedly akin to cattle at feeding time,
Cattle eat fresh grass in lush fields with fluffy clouds with a bright blue sky above
Where you sit,
Plastic plants lay in corners producing no oxygen

Cold metal chairs hit stained tiles as cleaners start packing up for the day
Asian women in the distance paint customers long claws,
They smile at each other’s colourful toes with gleeful envy

Though a large bird **** splattered window you see people down below rubbing their bellies,
They ride an escalator upstairs,
To spend time with you in heaven

Wiping irreversible grease into your trousers,
You throw garbage into a metal mouth and leave
worked for a bit on this one, its long so thankyou to the one person who can be bothered to read this, this is based on a real food court.
Lillian May Feb 2019
I'm not one for Valentine's Day.
Love wrapped up and packaged into superficial nothingness
The meaning, the weight and beauty of love, made less,
stripped away and replaced with balloons and chocolates.
If you love someone you tell them
Tell them with the way you look at them,
with the way you touch them,
buy her flowers because its Tuesday
dress up for him because you wanna take his breath away
falling in love is a whirlwind of involuntary passion
staying in love is an action
showing love is a responsibility, a choice
don't dull the song of love's voice because it shouldn't be loudest but one day a year
interlock your fingers and breathe each other in
not for a holiday, do it for the grin, that blooms on her face more lovely than any roses in a vase OH dear
Love is not just once a year.
I love you everyday of the year.
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Cyber! Neon green, pinks,
Hair like vivid spotlights
At nightclubs, darting, sharp,
Strong-willed and persistent,
Piercing through the pale skin
Laid thinly over fog.

Shock-shock! If anarchy
Is popular, what does
It mean to rebel? Rave
Lights beam through the system
Like tracer rounds! The punks
Spin like halogen bulbs.

Steel! Plenty of plastic.
Enough to rebuild the
Eccentric walls of their
Flashy nightclubs. Above,
Sophisticated chains
Spin and drag over meat;

Pointless. A simple sort
Of mechanisation.
The music, the plastic,
The hair dye; all of it
Spits to the contrary,
Such anarchists are they.
A poem about failure.
#32 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
Fire stirs gently
In the depths of my chest.
Hot rocks, rolling
The molten stones down to

My stomach. The
Ache is quelled, substitute
To flame. Piping
Cold nectar, as gold,

Drawing only the
Boldest flames, dragon-like,
From my throat, my eyes,
My thoughts,

Invoked. Strong,
Stirring-gold, brazing,
Golden flames. Quell
The pains of my

Sooth the raw burns
Of my purpose,
Or lack thereof.
A poem about alcoholism.
#31 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
A pale green Siren
With fair skin, and the distant
Aroma of coffee beans...

Behind her, a broad,
White-bearded old man
Grinning, stares through my head...

And above, the dull hum
Of an apple, a single bite missing,
Penetrates me with its glare...

My eyes sting with tears.

It's almost like they need
To force us to be human.
A poem about advertising.
#30 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
The end of Second Summer's day
When rain and snow have ceased to be
Will see the end of our delay
And mark the death of our decree.

Elsewhere the despondent souls
Of smoke-stacks rise up from the coals...

As plastic melts beneath the glare
And long the Dream was dashed ashore,
Then will smog-clouds light the air
And cast the fires across the moor.

... Then, far beyond, the wand'ring mirth
Will strike the land, and scorch the Earth...

Until the sky is raised in flame
We'll walk the trail of frail regrets,
And once the world glows hot with shame
Shame will then our end beget.

... And so our doing will blaze the sky
A poem about global warming.
#29 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A cloud of smoke and fog so toxic
They had to give it a name.
Out here, it coils around signs
And slinks up the height of buses:
Keen and watchful, like a python,
Squeezing the life from

My lungs. Heavy with ash
And tar from the cigarettes.
The fumes snake upwards,
Swirling in fog, smog,
Ashen clouds. There's a sight
For sore minds.
A poem about air pollution.
#28 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Sleeping commuters leave
Ghostly auras amidst
The foggy plastic windows.
They slumber through
The booming snore
Of exhaust-pipes, choking smoke.

Silence. Or closest to.
Even stopped, the Bus roars,
Patiently brooding, growling,
As a wolf in the underbrush
Watching the crimson lights, sharp
Like blood on a pavement.

A small cat, uncollared,
Sprints across the road
But is pounced upon.
The wheels creak,
Commuters stir, and the Bus
Stalks away into the night.
A poem about human carelessness.
#27 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
Last weekend, I
Went out stargazing.

I was struck
By the cold beauty of one
Lonely star, glistening
In the inky veil,
Winking at me.

Alone in her
Frigid bedsheets, she
Gazed down, like monarchy,
To I; the one who saw
Her quiet beauty.

She winked again,
Then drifted away:
A plane in the night.
So there were no stars
That evening, after all.
A poem about stargazing.
#26 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
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