(20 minute poetry)
Them old Romans had good ideas, burn down the cities, cut off your ears, but we didn't take heed,
preferring to bleed I suppose,
you can't smell 'jack **** when they lop off your nose and you can't poke it in to what doesn't concern,
let it burn.
And who gives a ****?
the common man
the man on the street who treds warily?
Dragged into this world and dropped into the next,
who can expect any more?
I'm watching cities arise on the horizon and thinking they all look the same,
London
Paris
Scunthorpe and Rome, but what's in a name?
Babylon coming one day
when Jericho falls.
It's not trumpets I hear only
curses caulking
the back of my throat.
On a small boat in a big sea and later
the creator will be coming for me.
Always on the horizon,
eyes on the present and past.
