Somewhere between the black woods and eternity
a radio telescopes inward,
receiving transmissions from planets that orbit too close to dying stars
Wire-frame glasses reflect fluorescent autopsy light
while he dissects the anatomy of manufactured dreams
and finds the tumour growing in capitalism's left ventricle
His stretched skin becomes holy parchment
An ancient text written in braille for blind gods
who never learned to read suffering in its native tongue
The motorway breathes exhaust-led prayers
while February counts its dead in bridge tolls and unanswered phones,
each ring another question mark punctuating Wales's grey sentence
University corridors echo with the footsteps of ghosts
who had memorized Nietzsche by seventeen,
carried Camus in their back pockets like suicide notes
waiting to be delivered to the right address
Television screens flicker with the static of manufactured consent,
while he rewrites the programming with a Stanley knife,
each edit a small revolution against the tyranny of prime time
Anorexia becomes protest art
the body politic starving itself into exclamation points,
each visible rib a manifesto against the consumption of empty calories,
hollow promises at the feast of fools
Hotel rooms become laboratories for experiments in disappearing,
measuring the exact weight of a soul leaving its container,
calculating the trajectory of thoughts fired from synapses
like bullets from revolvers aimed at tomorrow's headlines
Library cards become passports to countries that don't exist on maps,
where the Situationists build barricades from broken promises
and the debris of failed utopias scattered across reading room tables
The prescription bottles rattle like maracas in a funeral march,
each pill a small white lie told to neurons
that refuse to dance to the rhythm of acceptable madness
Generation lost souls spawned in record shops
that smell like vinyl graves and teenage sweat,
where punk rock priests absolve the sins of suburbia
through three-chord sermons and feedback baptisms
The river becomes the confessional booth
muddy water swallowing secrets faster than Catholic guilt,
while somewhere upstream salmon swim backwards
through time zones and regret,
searching for the source of all this beautiful poison
What remains?
Ghost frequencies bleeding through static-filled amplifiers,
the phantom limb of a voice that taught microphones how to scream in perfect pitch
Razor blade archaeology unearths civilisations
buried beneath epidermis and expectation,
each scar a hieroglyph spelling out the secret names of gods
who abandoned their creation mid-sentence
The NHS prescribes bandages for wounds
that require complete reconstruction of the universe's operating system,
while social workers file reports on boys
who refuse to be case studies in other people's textbooks
And somewhere a jukebox skips on the same broken note,
playing requiems for boys who turned themselves into archaeological sites,
and into buried treasures we're still excavating.
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