Eastwards
Glass mountains give way to concrete
foothills
Tarmaced ravines and rivulets of brick
Wire fronted shops and paint peeled
sills
Analogue aerials like tribal sticks.
How long will those armies wear
Petticoats
And other civic Victoriana
Now the conduit of Commercial Road
bloats
With bodies, traffic, it chokes. In
summer
The ancient stench from delicate sewers
Gagging as from great glass cliffs
tumbles
A weight of shit they were not built to
bear
And always underneath the ground
rumbles.
Later, some will ask what it is we did
And they will ask who built the
pyramids.
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