No Room At This Inn

The population
of a mid sized town, float,
in the wake of
a slowly churning super-tanker
named procrastination.

Sombre men in pinstripe suits
and the crime
that Thomas Mason,
handmade shirts represent.
(Resent that comment all you want you cunt)
Its vile you stunted, bearded judge
of the human condition.

How dare you wear that skin?
When others swim ‘til breath betrays
and water morphs to sky,
another problem solved,
one less head to stamp an evil name upon.

Do you know the fear of war?
The doctor in Allepo
hunkered in the air raid shelter,
the hand he holds already cold.
The mother screaming,
ripping, rending.
Flesh.

Refuge for the refugee,
they can’t all be fucking jihadist
sent to subvert our claim on Eden.
(one of them is your next Jesus)

This paradise of shit and filth
and tongues that spew raw sewage
into the blood stained Mediterranean.
They look too us for life
and all you bastards do is fight,
about
quotas,
rotas,
responsibility.
Can’t you see the ocean rising.

 

-Dave Kavanagh

One thought on “No Room At This Inn

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