In rusty buckets of stagnant rainwater
& in the mould on teabags
left to rot in the bin,
in oil slicked puddles & stained
chip – papers on Sunday mornings,
in burst pimples & mucus,
in the craters of the moon
& the peaks of the sea,
it seems i can see your face,
Its smile of vapid panic
& barely – controlled hysteria,
& in the industrial sprawls of belief & faith
this contributes only
more waste & pollution,
more geese falling limp -winged through smog,
the stink of kerosene on skin
impossible to wash off,
lost, aimless,
there you are & there
desultory, idiopathic
here to stay & impossible to avoid.
This is a generation that knows little else;to
make love could be fatal,
to enjoy a spring rain on your face
could mean blindness, psoriasis,impetigo,
ageing.
Well,what do you do;you
eat
& watch tv
& masturbate
& roar
& find somebody,anybody,
to refuse to forgive. It’s
easy.
.
Niall Griffiths
Picture Nick Victor
.