You are beside me, winter trees, a comrade to the world, a home, the TV is playing war, we hope for peaceful sunlight. A whole heart of blood, resting on a whole heart of blood.
The children are dressed in black, they are throwing petrol bombs at the embassies, throwing electric flowers into the graveyard of capitalism.
The philosopher is counting the slow candles of the icebergs, noting how many summers we have left. She is brilliant in her sunlight hat. Her chest is a pyramid.
The president has retreated to the golf club, he rules in half sentences. Coughing up the 1950’s his mind is a puddle where broken dreams sit on the rooftops of libraries.
New weddings and empty churches, the minarets talk to the dawn before the sun lights up the city. The priests are whirling like dervishes in circles, they pinball off the walls, singing silence.
Diana and the swan ride an open topped red London bus, the trumpets beside them play rave music, LSD trips to the sound brass bands. CCTV diamonds for Oyster cards.
God is bored of us now. She sides with the animals and the weather and they watch our digital alien rampage, with cool sad eves.
Words by Greta Bellamacina + Robert Montgomery