Magic is a shamanistic rain dance
Heard on desert island disc albums
Found in our summer seasons.
Olivia and the lost children of the black night
Listen to this playlist
To find solace at Fagan’s round glass table.
Ingesting sharp stabbing snow flakes that travel
Both lanes through the flesh of the Dartford tunnel
That drip down from their throats
And land at the base of their navels.
Conversation sparks lightning rods as senses heighten
And false enlightenment forms with each inhale and exhale
From chain smoking fumes that entangle
Forcing their jaws to quickly quiver and tingle:
“City Nature is the display of the polluted and blemished.”
“Man is god – creator’s image.”
“God is a mixed heritage hermaphrodite – a celestial ‘Sheman’.”
“Woman is the echo of man’s woe
And a man is just a man,
And ‘just’ men sit lawless in their towers
And build for themselves walls to separate strange nations.”
“Higher consciousness is vanity disguised
When proclaimed by celebrity gurus
Seeking engagement from public eyes.”
“Perfection is the ant-eye-climax
Seen in tv advertisements
For the female pursuit:
To be younger than their waistlines;
Asphyxiating their grey matter on art-eye-chokes”
This disjointed, loquacious discourse disbands
Leaving only the smoke filled air to circulate the room.
Horizontal bodies lay frozen
And eyes stare into the distance –
Lost in far out dimensions.
Olivia awakens scanning the seemingly lifeless crypt.
A whisper emerges and invades her ears:
“Chemical consumerisation no longer feels divine
Amidst this community of lost children
Who remain lost in the black night.”
Please sir, can I have something more?