“Apparently people in Rotheram seem to prefer hanging,
a more traditional route for suicide,” that's what he said,
the man in the gutter, who coughed and spluttered
and spoke in an alcoholic stutter.
The Prophet? The Nutter?
with the sun-dried face.
What did he mean? This persona-non-gratis
a collection of rags covered in fleas,
exuding an odour that stank of cheese.
a remnant of a life held together with string.
Special Brew, clinging sloppily, to a well mane'd chin.
I was about to ask, when...
Bloodshot eyes gazed out from deep black holes
and shot a stare that burnt the soul.
Smiling a toothless grin in wizened disgrace,
this prophet? This nutter?
With the sun-dried face
Laughed menacingly, then began to utter...
“They're better off out of it - the dead!
It's all there in ancient texts and sacred scrolls
even in the political ramblings of martyred souls.
The death of your identity, consumed by techno-rapture,
keeping up with a society trying to avoid capture.
Reaching for the singularity betraying the Gods',
you'll get what you deserve you arrogant sods
The foundations of life you know so
well, will melt beneath your feet
in a sea of fire and angry heat.
It's the end of your evolution,
a summary demise
and from the ashes there shall arise...
A new species - led by I
The Lord of The Flies.”
Said the prophet? The nutter?
With the sun-dried face.
P Williams ©2001