Anonymous concrete
touch I say
touch and go listen to
the empty tin can rattle
smudge the wedding confetti
washed against the curb
smudge the ruffled coats
pinned to the ground
laced in booze
talking to themselves
hear the wind whip yester daze news
hear the streets choke with beginners luck
here the fear is printed in the papers
believing passengers move with hidden cargos
strapped on a sleeve and photo shopped to believe
what is built to survive requires religion and fences
before another bombed out child dies
before ever being conceived
hear the click clicking heels of the bankers play thing
watch a gold chain grip on his limp wet wrist
wind up wind down
pull away the chords
let the blinds go
as fake austerity sets in with frozen eyes
blinking in reptilian greed
hear the deaf groan for sound
dangling on a buckle in remote control
dangling in a world on digitalized pendulum clocks
tick tock tock tick
half past ready to drop
with ever approaching speed
hear the rush of the old men vomit
grown sick from lack of welfare
and unpayable insurance fees
there seems to be oh so much
and yet oh so little time to
send them all back to who knows where
touch I say
touch and go listen to
as young girls leave their chalk rooms
with dressed up skirts about to be stained
on grass in the locker
or behind the proverbial bike shed
again the question of importance
before mother arrives
tightly dressed in heels
an older version yet far less tamed
mimicking the adverts
and the bankers play thing
and fashion changes
fashion beats
the chance to enslave
foreign rag dolls
to bend and stretch
around tattooed cocks
ringed in vice with a royal flush
listen to the flag rope hitting the flag pole
no flag is in sight
and yet we all wave
hear the flag rope hit the flag pole
perhaps it has been stolen
or missing in action
here the shop windows are no longer dressed
to rumors of a bargain
and much needed goods
offering false promises to the promised child
whose broken lips
press against shattered glass
here again
on a bench in the park
derelict men pipe over old print
reminiscing oh to be youthful they wheeze
unable to acknowledge germ warfare
starts with a sneeze
here a hotel room is no safer than my pockets
here I can taste the salt on pickled fish eyes
here I have no time to notice
is it rain is it snow
as I tighten the collar
around my sore throat
here again i can no longer question
what is really important
as a tattooed fist
punches out a time clock
for the very last time
before the anonymous concrete
spews forth its soul
onto the cracked pavement
buckled and used up
with a question mark grinning
as the anchor lets go
