It would mean no bluebells I The forests burn To make the pretty lights That shine in Vegas. The Earth at night consumed with city lights. Lord save us. War - the theme of rich men’s dreams. II Give me all the old gods To sacrifice the past. Let religions burn Their funeral pyre The future cannot last The future is a fire. Let trees breath Let the skies be clean, The waters pure. Find the cure. So I’m praying to the prophets And the buddhas come before us: Help us wake up from this dream. III The shore is sick With half digested Vomit of the sea. A mist, appalled, Rolls in to hide The ocean’s scream As sky sperm tourists sunbathe by The retchings of the deep. The boundary of life and death Suspended in each breath: Illusion of the human mind. Where nothing’s as it seems IV Jen watches television An in depth half an hour On global warming’s strange new flowers By our polluted streams. Devastating droughts. Raging forest fires That melt the ancient ice caps Thawing in their gleam. Her friend says “But Britain will get warmer.” She replies “But that would mean no bluebells.” The woodlands start to steam. That would mean no bluebells Or the insect life that tends it As the ecosystem slips For the sake of a sun tan sheen. Land parched where once was green. V Richard and Judy Brainless and broody Are hosting children’s fashion week. “Too many boys Such little time.” Boasts Tina’s top, She’s not quite nine. And there’s a bra and panty set For five years olds - their daddy’s pets. Little beauty queens Not even in their teens. VI Dave used to be a happy chap Until he got a happy slap: He’d passed his GCSE’s Avoiding crack and trips and Es At least he’s got a sort of fame: he’s on TV - in Crime of the Week. In a hospital bed attached to a drain - The doctors says the outlooks bleak. Though he’s asleep he doesn’t dream. VII The forests burn To make the pretty lights That shine in Vegas. But that would mean no bluebells. Lord save us. Save us from this dream. |
