Canto XI

Where was I? Cutting hedges in Northolt
around the moment when the first plane hit.
I swept the cuttings from the black asphalt

then watched the footage round brother’s flat.
Real life seemed indiscernable from films
where heroes blew the baddy’s base to bits

and we all cheered despite the many kills—
we knew it wasnt’ real, but now it was.
The bodies leaping from the window sills

before the fall, the toxic cloud of dust.
And then the replays, clarifying nought
but stoking up the sudden, breathless lust

for vengeance, an immediate onslaught.
Well, hindsight is a bitch in that respect,
the worldwide dead in wars in which we fought

for presidents the world didn’t elect.
That night I chose to head out and parade
my verse at an open mic with grace and tact

but for all the righteous passion I displayed
my priorities hadn’t really changed at all
and those were to drink beer, perform, get laid.

I managed the first two, once more to fall
at the last hurdle, no surprises then,
and if the world had changed then none told

the shrubs of Northolt, littered with beer cans
And syringe needles, to be carefully placed
into yellow containers with my gloved hands

Above me, the indifferent blue of space
didn’t display a single vapour trail
and songs of blackbirds busily replaced

the Heathrow hulks, their low incoming growl.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 01, 2012 @ 00:19:37

    The second and third stanzas are food for thought… why are celluloid lives expendable when the real thing is not? How do our minds separate fact from fiction.

    Reply

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