Beneath the title of this poem,
the western world is a man
with no eyes or ears,
drawing fat red lines in the sand,

he wanders in a regular motion, smiling to himself,
gold drips from his neck,
his fat fingers filled with dirty sovereign rings.

But somewhere in a desert city it rains…
her invisible citizens struggle for breath,

“there is no easy death”
a college professor once told me,

“the best we can hope for is quick”

and on a bright afternoon in May
I look at the unfathomable sky,
and wonder how long it would take
to drown in my own mucus.

Beneath the title of this poem,
the Middle East is a group of tramps
gathered beneath the overpass,
huddled together
whispering in tongues,

even Israel is there
(high on Meth
and looking for a fight.)

Iran is sharing a can
of super strength lager with Syria,
Iraq is on its arse
(I get the irony – so shoot me!)

They’re getting pretty boisterous,
right in each others faces,
the cops look down from the skyway,
but continue eating donuts
in the warmth of their patrol car.

Beneath the title of this poem,
all the people who watch the news and tut,
before carrying on with their cornflakes
are the particles in a reaction,
the exothermicity of flesh
flesh, ideas fused into philosophies
into religions
into the weaponry.

You know, less than twelve years
after man discovered the neutron
a B52 soared above the Pacific,
its belly fat with a payload
that the world would never forget.

“Make love, not war”
those ‘doped-up’ hippies sang years later,
the mushroom cloud
forever burnt into their eyes.

Beneath the title of this poem
the night is slightly darker than before,
a sword rises above the bare nape of a neck,
there is that sound of a key in the door
which the captor knows will never open.

Mr Assad you sleep easy,
cos I can dangle
a million metaphors and fancy words
beneath the title of this poem,

and I’m quite sure
nothing will ever fucking change.