Monday, 25 February 2019



The truth of it: 
these are the end of days 
unbiblical and profane.

Blind fools have taken 
too much of everything
and bled an entire world dry.

No-one cries ‘Stop!’, 
no-one can agree when or how;
dominion over the earth:
a fat lot of good.

Power but no shred of respect:
air, land or sea, whatever was in them
ours, anything, we held, possible,
because of who we were.

Time, though infinite, 
is still running out, no longer a technicality 
contained in the mainsprings of old-world clocks
nor the digital drip of it, slow and steady,
on our heads like ancient water torture.

We’re fucked, if no-one has the courage
to read the signals beaming at us across this bead of rock 
as it spins around the sun, on its ravaged way, nowhere special, 
as insignificant as every other smudge of dust.

We are squabbling brutes of bone and meat
who swagger and huff; huddled masses with arrant lunatics 
who lord it over us, who eye the marks they make on history, 
never see the scars, whose hearts are set on glory 
never on how the weary world turns and we are squealing vermin, 
their glorious red carpet, dyed with our bloodstains and sorrow.

So, I said, suit yourself, dress up in fine clothes, look smart, 
parade and prosper, limo yourselves away to condominiums,
to compounds where your illusions are still as safe as money; 
trap us with your conspiracy politics, your sham of freedom.

And still I stand up and say, conjugate the verb ‘to fuck’,
it’s past participle, it’s metaphorical sense; 
to hell with literal, too late for that: 
I am, you are, he, she or it, (oh, shit) is, 
we are, you are, they are, 

© Brian Hill

Brian has been 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.