Daylight pierces thought the crack in the curtains,
I glance at the clock, its red digits read 6.45 am.
Stumbling into the kitchen got to have that first cuppa.
I roll a fag, there is no health warning on the packaging.
Standing on the doorstep, I take a slug of tea.
Smiling to myself as I remember the chimps.
I stare out at the multi-coloured concrete boxes.
The future’s bright – at least that’s what the bloke on the telly tells me.
The woman across the way peers from her doorstep,
She too is enjoying the first smoke of the day.
She glances up, and then returns to her cigarette, a look of despair on her face.
We are part of a failed plan. They threw a bit of cash at the problem,
It wasn’t enough, and anyway was spent on the wrong things.
Multi-coloured concrete boxes.
Eventually, when they could be bothered to have a quick look,
It was obvious, even to those who bury their heads in the sand.
Drinking at the last chance saloon, and have downed our last shot.
We got a fresh lick of paint, but the wood is still rotten.
The bull dozers appeared one morning, and promptly proceeded work
Covering us in a thin layer of crap, landfill that they couldn’t otherwise get rid of.
On top of this came layers of soil, followed by grass and Tarmac.
The stepladder teases, offering the chance of escape.
Not fit for purpose, I know it would fracture under foot.
All the same can’t get it out of my head.
Can’t trust the man on the box
The futures not bright, the futures not fucking orange.
Dark skies overhead.
The vultures are circling.