Untouchable
night. Rainbows riven & forged
in
rusted iron. Sweet Christ! To be born
into
this! The light mutates into
splintering
silence.
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.
Read more of Dee Rimbaud's
poetry
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