Spare Time.

We walk over the pavements that display
a crude mosaic of chewing gum, needles
and half dead pigeons.

I know that mountains reside here, that
fields now entombed with concrete offer
a catacomb only visible through aged eyes.

As our coats hang loose, the change in
our pockets jangle, just enough ammo to
pass this free time, that we never hold
sacred enough.

It now frees us momentarily from the iron traps
that have become far more comfortable than
we ever anticipated.

No need now for those once consistent
breakouts, as the waters now run at our pace,
not theirs.

Jonathan Butcher.

gods of this age.

The equation seems simple,
There are rooms to fill.
But the politics are complex when there's money to invest.

Towering high in white mist; metallic gleaming and green glass,
Progress, development, cold hearted monuments.
Babel calling; lifeblood draining, gravestone towers tall standing,
Like they've been here for years, round Alma street.

Temples built
By the gods of this age.

Deaf and blind to his rage
Mighty standing there, deaf to his prayer.
Just one shaking of the earth, descending glass, raising dust
Not death, not pain, just to start again,
This time at the centre, not the city, but the human, the heart, the man.
Until then it will happen.

Down below, in the subway, in the cold,
Curled up tight in futile position, no spare change coming.
His heart will go cold down the Eccelsall Road
His life does not matter, his death does not matter.
It comes too soon to his concrete rooms
Mist before eyes, and a blue body lies.

There was money to invest.
His problems were complex.
Too complex to engage the gods of this age.

Arthur Alexander.