psychosomatic muse (london poems)
6
end of a dream
in our world attrition
is the word
killing people is a job
hail professionalism
and humanity sits blown
inhaling sickness and filth
guttersniper it could only be you
o london why so sullen impersonal
and grey
when in your lap rose
flocks of nationalities
a mother cold and bitter
forsaken by her children
why aren't you calling anymore?
if you do not enrich yourself
what can you really offer?
to be naive is to be dull
my words feel broken and dead
war is a perversion
so is the end of a dream
