In den finsteren Zeiten,
wird da auch gesungen werden?
Da wird auch gesungen werden.
Von den finsteren Zeiten.
Bertolt Brecht
& on the eighth day
there was darkness
again. even darker
than the last time
but not a patch on
the next if you believe
that weird, little god-nik
fucker at the monument.
darker than that time
you gaffer taped my eyes.
darker than that night
we hammered the poitín
in davy’s da’s shed & you
bit off the ears of his sister’s
classroom gerbil. darker
than the entire contents
of johnny cash’s wardrobe.
darker than the core of an
overlooked verruca. dark
as fuck, apart from a pulse
of weak, pale light emitted
in the west from the burnt-out
convoy of overturned police-vans
currently blocking all six lanes
of the A1(M) in both directions,
& from jimmy upstairs, who has
somehow rigged an old black
& white portable to a car-battery
so he can watch attheraces
completely unimpeded by events
of global significance, & your
slightly eccentric, europhile
neighbour; the one with the nice
job & the buy-to-let mortgage,
engaged in an act of quiet immolation
there in the back-lane, precariously
close to our wheelie-bin. apart from
all that though, it’s dark as fuck.
much darker than the last time,
not a patch on the next.
new boots and pantisocracies 