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Third Rate Occupation

The dust of occupation settles soldiers spittle,
adulterated packaged food, strewn on pitted fake tile floors.
Blown grass disturbs mud stained hollow in a crumpled jacket
restless troop formations observe endless hacks and bores.
Photo journalists cut to and fro, each camera is a story.
Stone faced moronic generals speak, words corrode the tape spool.
Bandits roam cool evenings, drag out dressing gowns, shoot stars,
explosions rip in distant hills ruled by local Tsars.
Seedy cocaine caches taint dust filled hotel bedrooms.
Discarded shoes and take aways, heighten the disorder.
Misplaced bodies fall about in rigid supplication
crackling static fills festering air at empty railway stations.
Elbows dig deep in metal sides of lift shaft,
elevation works passengers to a state of nervous laughter.
Vaguely delineated hierarchies of fledgling partisan parties,
hold pointless clandestine conferences every other Friday.
Rattling pipes flush and thud, terminal plumbing beckons,
Visceral mind numbed politics reckon days inside each second.
New trip traveling companions share the Winter Terrace,
Last flight information booms its final acts of malice.
Dim lit lobbies strewn with leather stools and seats
CCN multi screens shriek receptionists to sleep.
Among babbling idle talkers in clubs and corporations,
doodles drawn on photocopied taunting publications.
A crow flies by, wings caught in a slow blur.
The neat post modern symmetry that gives this scene its label.
Slatted lattice blinds reflect in dusty glass topped tables,
waiters aprons stained with blood and oil from broken cables.
Violence seems invested in bizarre floral designs,
at the rooftop club re-established on abandoned floors,
Beer and biscuits are sent up from the local cafe store
while the generating system starts to melt down at its core.
Zip bags stashed behind repro paintings corrupt each smoke stale room.
Inch thick wads of currency concealed in corroding cisterns.
The boulevard lies whip lashed beneath a heavy pall of cordite,
plastic bushes watered by defaulting sprinkler systems.
Holiday Inn, Hotel Manyana, each now temporary homes,
rising through a toxic plume to greet a yellow dawn.

8 Feb 07

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(215 more poems by this author)

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i (fell in love?) with the tone and the flow, that calm rhythm. awesome use of words and placement. a favorite because obviously one must read this more than once. and, for the quality. nice work and thanks for the time you must spend reading this.
 — listen

i wish more had commented.
 — listen

Dear Listen

In the fickle world of PC we are constantly in the throe of forces we can neither command or understand. I am really delighted that you have responded so positively to this poem.

 — larrylark

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