As the new moon rises fat on blood,
And feelings high run,
Panic erupts in the heart of Europe.
For a menace unfettered brings
A festival of carnage,
A massacre!
To darken where light should have dismissed the vestige of winter gone.
Silence as we hang our heads in sorrow for the innocent who will never now be heard,
While lunatics bloated on moonshine,
Clip the yellow bud of spring,
Leaving us to embrace the dead season’s ghost.
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic, We,
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.
Mindless,
In the soup of silicone, all
Myth-makers,
Pouring over electro-spawned networks, fall
Workers,
In the buzz of bits and bytes, of megabytes and terabytes,
down.
Far from the wood, the brine, the mud that caked us,
In tighter and tighter digitised projections, click:
‘Like me’, ‘Share me’, ‘Leave your comments.’
Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves, enter,
Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,
Now a waking voice,
Hardened, digitised, recorded in bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
Numb numbers of numbers numb, mirror.
A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
To record the echo in the hollow of our Being.
Making London the Rebel City
News items of interest to Black, Asian and Ethnic Minority Labour Party Members and Supporters
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Art Zine
Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
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