Recurring nightmares

They run like headless chickens
I know it’s only nerves and
the lingering opinions
of life
no longer fit to serve

Turn your back and they’ll shoot you
then they’ll curse you for falling down

I’ve seen a thousand wasted whores
on the unshod
riding roughshod on the
patterned cobblestones

and a thousand more hit homeless town
a thousand more folk going down

(Food banks)

pretty names for means testing,
religions on the rise
the poor are being shafted and
there’s murder in their eyes,

In the air ride, mod con sat upon the throne
he thinks it’s home

I think it’s Judas in my hair and it’s God that
doesn’t want to care
and if I have to
I don’t want to
it’s a mantra from the master who turned
out to be the bastard son of Satan.

always comes to hating more

don’t hate the whore for selling sex
there’s some that sell their souls.

I know a few
not one a Jew
or Jesuit
who would sit and talk again of war

but it’s war we make when we take a stand
and I’ve been to war before.

It’ll end
and the end will be
headless chickens
lingering opinions
bad nerves.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.