entry picture

I stand half-way, darting looks, searching,

beyond the crumbling barricade.

Across the carpeted way

(blood spilt drying by the day)

we nod in turn, ammunition bared.

The first shots cannon off chipped masonry,

reverberate, the fire-doors long-smashed,

to and fro and in our heads.

I must then run – and you behind –

above all cover, towards the bullets

as they melt away; to us they came

running and we now ready

for collision.


Days spent looking

to end this dreadfully uncivilised exercise –

we stand both there now,

slowed to a halt in our tracks;

we brush the mirror aside, it moves,

slow, at first, but quickens, as the noise

increases without.

We take steps forward, come into

this pure, barbaric light.

And there here the deafening roar

of tens of millions of faces;

angry, passive, confused, amused, and all

gazing up expectant.


We raise our hands, tentative,

risk a wave.


◄ Hot Air '97

Bowl Of Earth ►


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