The path below has sickened and the air is wrought with rain,
A hungry caterpillar speaks a chord tones grey and inane,
Passion waits in hungry eyes, as beggars hold to their forts,
Cymbals crash, so waved they ask, leaving dividends to their whores,
How cries the pain.
Weary with ambition as a poet writes down his words,
And Joyce was very careful not to evoke Keats at his worst,
A triangled shape starts losing weight increased by width they weigh,
A Godless world now unfolds under Dawkins man must prey.
He cries the pain.
Watered kites and bells on bikes are ringing in my ears,
A suffragette in time forget the wars once worth the tears,
Ravens fly throughout a sky, red with blood and pores,
Millionaires, with panache they share, more secrets to world wars.
Who are unnamed.
Magistrates masturbate in words no fear to ask or shape,
Specified, a hungry eyed banana is cut from trees to ape,
These murdered caves, sleeps and pigs, blood paned passed and buried,
Profiteers now pioneer a world so tough and hurried,
Who have to gain.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This is an unpleasant read, much as life is an unpleasant existence.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.