Torn Dreams of Paradise
There is a certain passing rhythm
to the passing of days.
The hand that grows ever more reluctant to be held,
the hair getting ever nearer my nose,
and jokes tickled tighter to the truth of laughter.
And always there is the changing billboards.
Barking out the cry of sex and sugar: sugar and sex:
deep fried sluts, the obviously airbrushed,
and the ever more deeply starched,
presented as what seems like food
or cars - or both or not. So common is this thing
that slips past each morning.
So angled as to be unseen in the hometime rain,
so tall and wide as to make less sense
than the bullied tears, which provoke us to forget
that with which we really should
have a quiet word with someone about;
if only so we no longer have to hear.
