| Dale Mawhinney |
The monkeys are screaming Cataract eyes with a shotgun shine A naked whore's cracked face appraising Leathery body smothering a claustrophobic death And I squirm, an alter boy at confession Drugs and blood the anthrax mix of vices Drip dried black on the forecourt floor A faded ghost drifts by nameless to release The children still run and skip with 10p mix and coke A fourteen-year-old girl with pigtails and faith Screams like a chimpanzee’s shattered soul Crystal tinkles on sacred rock for the righteous to mourn All the while a man of faith performs his dark confirmation The father, son and Holy Ghost are not here But a tortured girl is stripped bare and bleeding Porcelain ankles buckle under gluttonous probing No therapy left for a dead god A white-knuckle ride, with tea for desert A sip of commiseration over spilt milk and broken noses The six-pint glass boxing champ breaks hearts again A dash of blood over pots and pans Sunday roast cigarette burns, a lesson for the ladies Now she knows whose boss, one slap more to keep her in her place He loves her so he does over two sugar and milk Right before he beats her again for flinching in fear Bad sided garbage homes on the wrong side of the double rails Festered lives on a run from guns and hate Huddled behind barbed wire fences dead babies in their arms The living play with old mortar shells from the last civil dispute Aids agencies run over themselves to supply the survivors Yet generals eat the most with pockets stuffed with blood And so on the lifeline of refuge states theses nomads shuffle to death A work of perpetual misery for newscasters to feed on Stockings and suspenders fishnet thongs and backless bras Short denim skirts provocatively reveal butt flesh Knee high suede boots with stiletto heels Her torso skimpily covered by a rap around pink strapless top In shops all across the land you can now buy these clothes In the kid section you can find the gear for you cherub To dress her up as a whore and send her out for the wolves It is your right in our society today so embrace it heartily A final verse of service a dictated hate of simply being Why can’t I be the happy ant not knowing or seeing The fashionable bee draped in fluid expenditure a slave unknowing Life drifting by opinion polled to death by fifty-second ad breaks Would you want my pain a mortal on the grindstone? A life wasted for the possibility of affording a bigger TV Eighty years isn’t enough and eternity is always out of grasp When all I hear are the monkeys screaming |
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