They felt safe then
so I've heard
Under their
Thick black blanket
Of industry
Now they kneel and pray
At the steel alter
a hopeless congregation
At a godless mass
The black-country monks
Gargling hymns and eating the body
Of some budget Christ
With dirty children
Off-white angels
Kicking feral pigeons
And picking up half smoked nub-ends
taught to never look up
And scour the ground
Future is a funny word
Future is a silver dream
Gargling hymns and eating the body
Of some bastard Christ
kicking stones
At the shapes of
Yesterday’s ghosts
One day you’ll find me by the water
Kicking stones at
Yesterday’s ghosts…
