Riots
They forecast rain tomorrow.
But once this pain ebbs,
I will sleep through the flat, copter drone
as it tans roofs and nervous walls
and talks of noble rioters
and various police charges,
of tear gas, baton, tear gas and bricks.
I will sleep through this revolt,
as all twists of mobs,
indignant plastic bullets
and hiccups of democracy
lull like rain.
Manoeuvres
Those precious bastards on the third floor
can have their nightmares gift-wrapped
and presented to their gaping jaws
on steel plates, moon-shaped,
like their tiring nights spent procreating
sweat-stained, stinking linen on beds
designed to moan and buckle as if
one, final, utter thrust would push
their holy lust to heaven and not just
a quiet trip to the bin and a hunt
for tissue paper, or a cig, or some
over-sold and poisonous brand of
cheap booze left rolling, half-drunk,
or whatever the fuck they want
after they finish their untimely tussle
for all I care.
But,
shut the fuck up.
Balls
If that precocious metaphor
could sing below the fading rhymes
and stagger on to chain a line
disjointed by its teeming themes
and passing onto parts unseen
and indistinct as other things
that lack the slightest concrete hook
and fail to find themselves in books
but on the web, beneath the trees,
like the purity of a disease
that led all baking poets to
an unrelenting facile crew
part drunk, part loud, part gone, part me,
I would not look with certainty.
I'd use a fucking simile.
John Lund
(fuck off)
They forecast rain tomorrow.
But once this pain ebbs,
I will sleep through the flat, copter drone
as it tans roofs and nervous walls
and talks of noble rioters
and various police charges,
of tear gas, baton, tear gas and bricks.
I will sleep through this revolt,
as all twists of mobs,
indignant plastic bullets
and hiccups of democracy
lull like rain.
Manoeuvres
Those precious bastards on the third floor
can have their nightmares gift-wrapped
and presented to their gaping jaws
on steel plates, moon-shaped,
like their tiring nights spent procreating
sweat-stained, stinking linen on beds
designed to moan and buckle as if
one, final, utter thrust would push
their holy lust to heaven and not just
a quiet trip to the bin and a hunt
for tissue paper, or a cig, or some
over-sold and poisonous brand of
cheap booze left rolling, half-drunk,
or whatever the fuck they want
after they finish their untimely tussle
for all I care.
But,
shut the fuck up.
Balls
If that precocious metaphor
could sing below the fading rhymes
and stagger on to chain a line
disjointed by its teeming themes
and passing onto parts unseen
and indistinct as other things
that lack the slightest concrete hook
and fail to find themselves in books
but on the web, beneath the trees,
like the purity of a disease
that led all baking poets to
an unrelenting facile crew
part drunk, part loud, part gone, part me,
I would not look with certainty.
I'd use a fucking simile.
John Lund
(fuck off)
