System Critical

Low flying clouds obscure the view from where the sirens call
The sea baits its breath in anticipation of Icarus’ fall
Gulls hold court to elect an ambassador to the Ministry of Hate
Fill the air with cries and bones and meaningless debate

Decaying flesh in tailored suits with pockets lined in gold
Driftwood, distressed, confess - how cheaply they were sold
We scatter pigeons as we cross the sand to catch a cold
Folding paper aeroplanes believing what we’re told

The magician shows his empty sleeve then takes his pay in spite
Dressing vultures up as doves to shit from dizzy heights
Upon our declarations, deals, labour laws and basic human rights
He leaves us burnt with headline news to warm our winter nights

April 2009

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