drugs – Page 41 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

Eastern Soldiers

Eastern soldiers by the sea a million or more, I clambered to the high ground in the city the nightmare of invasion had now appeared. Inside the huge hotel I went, I had greased all entrance points windows and elevated to the highest point of the complex. Occasionally peering across the vista to observe the encroaching mass of green uniforms, the number was increasing I headed for the tropical flat roof with its resplendent shimmering pool aware of my dwindling freedom.

I could hear the noise further down in the complex, I just hoped that they were not looking at the the power usage monitoring so I searched for the solar panels. Much of this city had now fled and the power base of the country had now ran, we had
courted the southern countries and now they had arrived, we were the last to be taken.

Now they were enveloping every space of this small island, trouble is that they have also located me, so I will sit here in my unreal world til my rooftop door is knocked down
and then I will see a million more goodbyes I am fading fast and at last a bullet found me fast…

New Britain

So I wasn’t wrong all along the line of thought, the new developments, the crammped spaces in designated areas. Self sufficiency had taken to new highs, we were becoming population heavy the undertakers couldn’t cope in the middle of civil unrest, the council couldn’t cope to the reaction, to their planning, unfinished housing, shit spinning in empty cement mixers. Everyone now did smell and the dying were dead, so came to pass the small oblong buildings.

They were between the once bright flats they housed the dead where undertakers feared to tread, this is new Britain, civil destruction society torn and burning a government in retreat MP had fled to hide this country in mutinous madness evil is the mistress
of the turgid toilet of a country where manners ( manners) is the name of a house.

We Don’t Do Love

We don’t do love we just do movements and potions, where once there were emotions, many of the drugs of our times in lines to keep us happy and horrid, the difficult deaths and passionless end, served up
in sensations, in news we do not know a bottom from a top as a cloud passes over at the wrong time, just twenty years inside and I’ll remember the mistake next week. When bringing life back will be too late.