6 1

  m.  a.   l i t t l e r  

ringsend gasworks : smd

Fishermen are drilling holes into the bows of their vessels
The women resemble demented Chinese porcelain dolls
Lawyers and accountants are smashing one another's heads in with bronze bed posts.

Preacher men are staggering down the main drag with Arabian daggers in their hands and are dowsing the penny arcade with Kerosene.

On market square the flag's on fire and folks are tied to lampposts
The windows on Main Street, they're all boarded up and no one wants to stay.

I say leave them prophets 'n angels 'n saints at home
I'm dwelling amongst mysterious men and by the looks of it there'll be business to attend.

What's that chatter 'bout crowns of thorns
All I see is bowler hats.

The doctor with his pencil moustache stands in my door frame
He looks lost 'n worried
"I don't know what 'tis but it ain't good…", he says.

I sit myself down by the window, sip my opium tea and grin while some gypsy choir outside sings us all straight into hell.

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from the collection "Babylon Wasteland" by m. a. littler
© 2004 m. a. littler - all rights reserved