The cracks are growing wide now. Dead End Street.
The Sun shines broadly, bending branches to
Englishmen in German cars. Starch stiff suits.
Smooth oak desks in stuffy rooms. Scandal, sensation,
Fear of sleuths from Red Top Rags. Vendors:
Hype to Middle England. Wine bars to
basement trudgery; War, murder, celebrity.
Twitching eyes staring out from a spectrum of faces.
Neatly trimmed lawns or cold empty cells.
The bright, young star of the Commons in chains.
Cash for questions and fake sheikhs. The Sun glares,
But then moves on Westward returning with
Warmth the next day. Build up, knock down, repeat.
Under watch, between the junkie rock star
And the footballer’s wife. Even when he’s
Inside, outside of reality. Lost
Until the prison gates open under
Redeeming Sunshine and
He creeps back through the shadows.
