Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Cry, baby, cry Put your finger in your eye And tell your mother it wasn't I

London's burning, London's burning
Fetch the engine, fetch the engine
Fire, fire! Fire, fire!
Pour on water, pour on water

THe flesh on their faces stretches up to the gray haze and then tears back over their skulls and is drawn away into the wind, it snaps off and is dragged along the black and soggy streets.  The skeletons rise up and scream out and the fires rage out from their bellows, others rise up and they shrill after something, something that lies beyond the violence and destruction, the elusive peace of being.  Winds come down warm and push back the skeletons that push on into the air, then they begin to crumble and like dust begin to blow across the streets and into the gutters and along and out of the choking city and into the country where the lanes are clean and green and the rocks are white and grey.  Foxgloves clamour for space and your sons and daughters still run wild in the ever greens behind the water meadows.  Mother is around and her broom is strong swish swash swish swash and sweeps clean london, running with fire and hatred and fear and need.  All the life suffocating, little tinders gathering the sparks, death waits ever in its high chair, and the fear grows like a flower in the sun of true needs.  

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