It’s funny when
Your face seems
As as cold and as craggy as a Cobo rock
As if all those years of living down there
Have transmuted you inwardly
And silence spans between us.
Like a reproach
You sit, square shouldered
And I wonder.
How many reasons born
In a world that isn’t listening
It shines and it’s glistening
This island forces conformity
By proximity
It’s not kith or kin
But a money-based lie
Stripped down and bare

Why did the joy separate from the work?
Why did they go their separate Ways?
Now only the old, the sick and the broken
Are left to follow the ancient paths
Whilst all else is subordinated to
The pantheon of money, pain and pleasure
Where did the spirit go?
Was it evaporated off into space
Or did it regenerate
Into a travelling lifestyle?

Freedom from internal oppression!

Too many problems in my life
Just can’t cope with the trouble and strife
Disaffection is rife
I’ve sold my virgin wife
Who knew
To say the right words
To bring me back?


Copyright © Christopher J. Hudson 1996