Smoke And Mirrors

X.

Waking or dreaming from outside I hear

wild sabbats, screaming winds, tape hum, metal machine music;

witches astride ghetto blasters crowd the moon,

then land on the heath their naked flanks aglisten.

No one pays anything to attend the meet, each has it taken care of in advance,

baby bones with fat still clinging to them;

these things are direct debit, standing order,

and I see

or think I see

a face I recognise and all of them queue up to kiss his ass,

let's rim the Devil, boys, cold seed,

and in the dark he turns and looks at me:

One door opens, another one slams, I trust that everything is satisfactory? We do what we can, everybody's got the right to turn an honest penny; we're all bankrupt, sir, we're all redundant, but we make the best of it, whistle through the Blitz, that's the business. Fair trade is no robbery. Tuesday morning, then, sir, with the pigeons?

I nod and draw the curtains. Junk mail is everywhere.

They'll get to you,

one way or another they'll get to you; someday

I'll find my tube train underground, I'll pay no fare,

just "This is Hell, and I want out of it,"

and then things will be simple once again.

It will come for me like a dragon down a dark tunnel.