Days of grass
These are the days of hollow eyes walking
in hallowed towers with watching turrets,
of pink petunias on bullet-hole balconies
of long blue kisses and air-to-air missiles.
These are the days of withering grass,
weeping thistle and wailing willow,
staggering lupines on pesticide paths
and brown winds blowing over plastic islands.
These are days of treaties torn
by shrivelled souls in vaulted chambers.
Of brand-chocked brains and anal refrains
of mannequin minds in public office.
These are days of the corporate booster,
of social capital for the multinational,
a million for the children’s hospital,
and poison for the neighbour’s dog.
These are the days of distant song birds
of addled frogs in strange valleys,
of Arctic blues in long larval nights,
lost monarchs and the last burrowing owl.
Now are the days of sun storms and drought,
nuclear floods, electronic plagues,
genocidal hate and supremacist rage
down at the schoolyard shooting range.
These are the days of socialization
by pistol and penis and Phi Beta hazing,
recreational fury of the self quarantined
and homicidal tyranny by touch screen.
These are the days of gorge and binge,
of hyper-cooled air for fashionable skin,
and skinny patios that bubble with heat
on tailing ponds under fey-fecal skies.
These are the hurried days
of the accelerated phrase,
and the acronymic end
to all discourse.
And these are the children of healing
who run for sweet-clover hills, and live,
still, for the music of whippoorwills,
in these dying days of grass.