They’ve trained us too well,
old toad; genetically primed Ian Mullins
so that no-one can stand
in the park on a wet spring day
where umbrellas are policemen
chasing burglars down the street
and not feel shame
at all the hours ‘wasted’
when hours are only banknotes
burning on autumn bonfires
before another long winter
buys in to the oldest, most cherished
of lies; that we are at best
small cogs in long machines
living only ‘useful’ lives,
so need not worry
when the sun passes overhead
like a ‘plane to a destination
as guilty as our dreams;
collaborators betraying
all we eden be - think Wordsworth in the Prelude
watching the earth turn like a football
a little boy kicks along the street -
feeling nothing but dread, or shame.
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