No one could have predicted this
We’ve done everything we possibly can
they proclaim on nightly broadcasts,
shaking their fists for emphasis as if
describing ineffective ancient magic
runes in the air, as globs of engine oil
dribble down their chins, distracting
from the soft focus, where shadows
tear copper wire from the concrete.
We’ve done all we can, they inisist
in their two thousand pound a piece
newspaper columns, before huffing
furniture polish, snorting ground
rare turtle eggs and sitting down
to a subsidised pre-luncheon of
flammable cladding shavings over
satueed arms deals and steamed
dreams. They ask the staff to turn
up the music, block out the sirens,
the near constant rise and fall
from cold streets, indistinguishable
from the wails of hungry children.
We’ve simply done everything we can
they proclaim, whilst frantically
issuing bills, edits and emergency
agreements that say nothing at all.
We stop listening, but aren’t surprised
when we find our mostly methane river
catching fire on hot days, feel rain
of razor blades fall over our naked
flesh, run our taps for some water,
watch our sinks bubble and corrode.
Listen, we’ve done everything we can,
they plead on billboards and radio
interviews, while filling their pockets
with piles of precious gems and futures,
flinging contracts at any incorporated
friend, sealing themselves in airtight
packaging, posting themselves first class
to their isolated third homes (the ones
that are registered to their daughters
for tax reasons you understand), while
a hundred thousand pairs of eyes
filled with ash and soil, look on
unblinking.
Less a poem and more a rant, this has been circling in my mind since last week. I hope it will be less relevant in time.