three minutes +

So the adverts shall crawl in sterilised glass, submarining you down and down until unwelcome sleep
one tight pill of death

Grope like sweating junkies
happy to be flat cadavers if we watch them
on screaming
tables about
how high! Their painted faces

Me, just gimme all that damn silence between us
the kind that needs no fuel
the kind that knows no hunger;
and makes us confess that life loves being
a hypocrite, and then
every now and then!

And advertised reason why it’s time to go
home, and on

just look at one of them
in the flaming rain
smile at their teeth.

Eat nothing that they provide, awakening the sorrow
of infinite

shatter breathing plain
flicking the lightening

Telling the flies
to sing back at strange
or die, in a package holiday
to Prague for a good price

A poem that hates
easy listening!

But tends to smile
when it is seldom played.


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