Poem by John Smallshaw

Weird takes on the architects

They build and call them tower blocks

,
they’re concrete rockets to entomb us then they’ll blast us into space.

This race is no race for old men.

And when we’re out there gravitating towards the dying sun
they’ll have us playing parlour games,
gee whizz
oh lord
what fun.

But we’re catching on to their games and the things they’re going to do, you’ll get older one day
it’s time for you to catch on too.

They’re building seismic sidewalks
that tremble when you talk

They’re building hell out in Lahore

hell
that’s been done before.

They’re spending billions on defence while a million people starve
there’s meat upon the table, but
there’s no one left to carve.

Unfinished

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