Not Stillbirth Not Rebirth



Untouchable night.  Rainbows riven & forged

in rusted iron.  Sweet Christ!  To be born

into this!  The light mutates into splintering



Post-modern.  A crown of fibre optic & razorwire.

Concrete cross on a wasteland.  River runs past

Eve & Adam.


Dreams gear down into underdrive & the city

skyline is blunted by fathom deep cloud.  River

runs past Eve & Adam.  Into sad mire & bogland.

Here, in this untactile, tactful, unplaceable

place, every face is the mother-smothered mask

of a solicitor, cast in a grimace of distaste.


Here, there’s no explosion of laughter, no riot

of colour: only the supped cup of numbness &

quiet disquiet.  The river trickles like a slag silted

tearduct: lustless & lacklustre.  The television

articulates our fears & lack of hope: now that

paradise has been lost; and poor wee Alice has

been sucked out of the looking glass.






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