Last Days
Her sixth beach house is staffed by migrant labour.
His seventh private jet is a polluter,
Their moral fabric has been eaten by insecticdes.
Right-wing coffee-shops refuse to use recyclables.
They trade on disparate identities,
to make a profit from our losses.
They blend those slogans as our tokens.
Their pet causes have been put out to roam.
But who will carry the casket,
when she's ropeable, and he's incapable?
Spectacular failure is the price of their self-interest.
A mamil is emerging from the surf of bliss.
Across the street, they've called on all the awe
they can summon, and turned it into a jest;
another sign it's time to get into something
incredibly sparkly and glam.
They soar over the ocean,
while we ooze through surveillance traps,
trapped in our queues of concern –
a hammer on the door; a shrug at the poor.
Midnight chimes behind their mirror-glass,
but otherwise the silence is absolute;
just the ticking of a time-bomb,
and our late-night heart-to-heart, poured over ice.
David Eggleton bio
