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'