They died two millennia ago
and now their skeletons are on show.
In York they excavate the graves
of fit young men albeit slaves.

There's evidence of cruel wounds
from many ****** afternoons.
Some headless, some killed by hammer blow
while bloodlust crowds shout and bellow.

Their bones bear marks of contest
from lion's bite to coup de grace.
Buried with funeral feast.
Once doomed now exhumed underclass.

How should we react today
with intrigue and concern to learn?
Where does our bloodlust find its prey?
Drop it! Dig out the day return.

Monday morning and here they wait
proffering their passports - pleasure cards
submitted to scanning for our next date.
Returning regular regards.

Brave Ben Hayes benign war hero
veteran of bellicose books
stalker of the cinema's front row
lover of library ladies' looks.

Miss Patterson reads the romantics
that free her from kindly caring
and meddling medical antics
that prevent her feelings flaring.

Finally here comes Francis
who craves crime and thriller novels
demented detectives dangerous dodges
devoted while the narrative unravels.
Then there's me. I'm normal.

Sitting watching waiting on strangers
each engaged not returning my gaze.
An alternating flowing current
switched off to others' fevered feelings.

One dimensional emotions
switching through time and place.
They meet:
- discordant face to distressed face
- happy sad pained angered anxious
differing to those of professional pace.

My turn next. Look respectable
but not too well. Don't say feeling fine.
He'll think you're wasting his valuable time.
Calm down - B.P. up. Now what's my story line.

You may go with Stevenson to Samoa
even ape Darwin's destruction of Noah
but have a care of going the way of Clare
or wandering wild with Oscar in despair.

You may well fall prey to the feminists' wrath
if you don't abuse Ted Hughes for Sylvia Plath
but it's the text that should trouble your head
let the authors lie in your second best bed.

They say we're in a money mess
their figures certainly impress
but who will pay their monstrous bill
now the bankers have had their fill.

It's not my battle but I must pay
I'm volunteered to save the day
they're cutting back on those we care for
the weak the sick - not those who have more.

There's nothing left for those in need
while fat cats scrounge with consummate greed
it's survival for the elitists
supported by the market's fleetest fleece-ests.

Two cultures worlds apart
some love science and others art
we're told they'll never jell
though Da Vinci drew quite well