Excuse me, do we still have to sign on after the holocaust?






She looked all doe eyed and virginal,
as the jeaned t shirt put a bullet in his spout
and forgot he was smothering in rubber,
he apologized
and she shot herself, cursing celibacy.


So he bought plastic soap powder flowers for her funeral,
because his dad said they were red and would last longer.


So he ripped up his dole card and joined the dissidents,
who were short on arms but could always get free chips,
after the pub closed
and before the dog catcher rounded them up,
for trying to sleep in their neighbourhood centre.


Long live liberty,
"give me a good crap any day"
said the old peacenik,
recently escaped from the locked ward
and no longer searched for,
for they thought she had a relative she could stay with at Greenham Common.


As I sat amidst drug dealers and whores,
watching the old Irishman jig his 60 years,
with his mates 20 year old girlfriend,
to bemused Rasta's who turned most of the pub on.


In the Station, watching Granddad puke up his liver,
as middle aged businessmen talked of their friends long sentence
and dreamed of being smugglers.


Being daring on the train lest we should be thought old,
by apple breasted girls who would turn rotten before we did,
either that or the internment camp,
for saying bollocks to a clean pressed white shirt,
that they said was our last line of defense against anarchy
and as we knew the will of the people,
which if applied meant guns and more deaths.

As they went to the factory and found it closed,
as paper and suits eat up our heritage
and sell it back to us covered in lead paint and bright advertisements.

"One world", they cried,
"after the holocaust" said Granddad, staring at his liver,
as the young trainee nurse pulled the dog out of the mess.

~