Lamp posts, tree tops,
roof tops, steeples,
impromptu bedroom peepshows.
Back gardens and back streets,
suburban rump stakes stumbled on,
with no place to run and hide,
like a friend’s Mum’s lumpy backside.
Conveyor belt of grim holiday photos,
stops and starts and slides
on by, to a rocking 4-4 back-beat.
our hopes and dreams,
flit freely between orange sorbet clouds
and opaque morning moon.
Look down …
our bodies shuffle,
single file in subtle shackles,
through those overtrodden tunnels,
twixt resigned binary nosebags,
overfilled like foie gras funnels,
and ill met meeting rooms.
Clutching our soul’s remnants,
forsaken latent wasted talents
the soup of samey crap subsumes.
Looking up from slave trade transit,
yearning for a tribe,
where we could be
what we are like,
and do what we love …
and dreams above.