Pompeiic - JLG Clift

Run
Keep
Running
Feet
clapping
like the
crowds

that have come

for you

Run
do it

just do it
you can do it
ignore
the bombs

going off
around you

see the
carnage
ravage
the stands

as

bodies erupt
into paste
and slap against

camera's
right

the lens
stalks
the anarchy
to see you
run the
hundred
in under
ten

the footage
is priceless
the death
irrelevant
as your legs
pump they're
mechanised marched
at 100 miles
an hour

2012

people
at the
stadium dead
in a city
crumbling
as the
track
stars
tumble
to the rasps
of rifles

you are the only
one to cross the
finish line

you did it
you
broke the record

the cabinet
applaud
from number 01
sipping cider
under the
shade of
ivy clad
parasols

regal chuckles
echo like
wind in
blizzards
above the crackle
of carnage

London
decimated
by Patriots
Pride
Pagan
Idols
Ideals

imported
from
Athens
Olympians
come over

Oblivious
they arrive
Trojans
for
Terror

All as planned

We are
lost
to

Oblivion

as a
mushroom
bursts across
sagging sunrise
spreads like
fungus
strips our skin to
the bone

Number 01
lives on
the Cabinet
closed over
put on the top
shelf
safe from

irrelevant
masses

crumble

the next
day
when the world
walks through

they dub
what
 they see

'Pompeiic'

we are
heinous
sites

a permafrost
sea
of
3D
shadows
obsidian
with a
tint of
red
crumbling into
the pavement
at the click
of a
shutter

snapping

at
a charred
family
fused to
the rotting leather
seats
of a 4 by 4

as
the world
is fused to
sofas
gawping
at the
spectacle

they can't
believe
you broke
the record

the Cabinet
emerge
from the darkness
of their hideaway

they look
well
rested

their suits
are immaculate

they got a tan

before
they arrive
staff barge through the
charred crowds

we are but
relics of
current
events
to be shattered
and swept
into the gutters

that's where the
staff has been
told

they
belong

a light man
in a dark suit
and power tie
approaches
an
antique
ash
lectern
set up by staff
in preparation

for his return to
the surface

his face is
rouge
on film
his shadow
stretches
all the way
up the face of
Number 01

a streak of
tarmac upon
the whiteness
of the brickwork

the shadow
has horns
like shards
of glass

his cowlick
it must be
his cowlick

the staff
slick it down
and disappear
into the irrelevance
outside of
the len's eye

his lips
draw back
into a smile
as he turns
to his Right
Hand in a Yellow
tie
and winks

the red light
comes on
and he is
on air

the smile is
gone
he is on show
now
to the world

'this is
a sad day
for London
but we will
prevail'

the lenses
continue to
snap
like
the jaws
of rabid dogs
chomping

for the front page

the speech
rattles through
the airwaves

the delivery
is
Oscar Worthy

a nation, is brought
to its knees
by the words
he says

practised in the
mirror as he
shaved
this morning

he smelled our death
outside
a couple of
spurts
of his aftershave
saw to our memories

the camera shuts
down, and he steps
from his
podium
to hear the good
news

from Os
'the Borne to be'
chancellor

'good news DC, we've been given
a global donation, the recession
is over'

a high five
echoes down
the street
as the

 Right

 Honourable

Gentlemen

celebrate

'told you it would work'

Creator Colonial - By JLG Clift

i walk on water
i walk on land
stand in every
texture, my foot
prints have soiled every
plate of food for
my young
my pure, my future

colonials

i walk
in

thunder clouds

they call

me white

lightning

but i have
so many

names

i let my future strike
like 9
tales of my power
dart from the mouth of the
wise to the children
their gods

know my

chil
dren's

sec
rets

but no one wants to listen
as they first arrive, with gifts

May

we

Flower

in the dawn of the new world

my children's leather
feet
are mistaken for
hooves
in the prints they make
as they bring clothes,
and concepts
and language
and friendship

and pity

and arrogance

and alcohol

and industry

and sickness

to noble savages
cannon fodder to the history of
U.S
to be reserved in huts
as we build around them
a reserved warning,
stilted in time
of why

my children are
so great

of why i am,
so great

but the first time
none of this happens
my colony
my message
and me
we sit with the
native sheep that grazed
the Plains where they saved
us from what should have
'been out in the cold;
too long; we are lost children'
we told them

lies

all

lies

they trusted like Good animals do
and now i shake
hands with the chief
and his wife

i like his headdress
like the blood red feathers and the tear blue beads
it is sacred to him
it will be on a carton of cigarettes
in years to come

good old

Natural Americans

their Spirits are mine

feel her flesh, warm, she feels like sunrise
silken palms
are crushed between my ice white

Callas

hands
in greetings

at the start of
the
first thanksgiving

they are sitting down to eat
our poisoned traditions
and my children, my colony, will be
sitting alone in years to come

they won't be here
they will be in
holes,
sacred to them
sacred to us
until our pity gives way
and we need

new land to build on

a man sits now,
hair thinned, white, sagging skin tanned like leather
beneath a tailored suit
and power
tie loosened in anticipation
of a Sunday roast
slaved over by black
shadows in white aprons
four hours
eaten in minutes over
scraping forks and
pop culture quotations

no thanks

look like a working man
but his hands are smooth
he hasn't worked
ever
because he is my colonial
and i love him

i gave him land
oil
money

he gives me a war,
he gives me a massacre
influence

god bless GW

I'm not god
but that is

one

of my names