I woke to the sound of sirens
wailing in a distant poetic dream
its potent portent a portal
to some alliterative armageddon
where neighbours greeted aliens
with a familiar chorus of veiled threats
and muffled misgivings.

In the cold night of day
police pass batons and party hard
failing to act on intelligence
they clearly lack; smart phone icons
dress down for Sunday prayers
defying dogma's critical mass
when looking down on themselves
from the high moral ground.

My alter ego, once a paragon
of virtual crime, changes its mind
to prepare for confrontation
with the believers from hell
stranded on desert aisles
their mesolithic mandibles
mouthing jaw-dropping jewels
that sparkle beneath an invincible sun
as the new day refuses to dawn on them.

The musk-laden sky spawns satellites
that watch in feigned fascination
as carousing clones conspire
with cowering constellations;
the transition from abandoned birthday
to imminent anniversary is undertaken
at a speed that defies gravity
though I am beyond giggling.

On returning to some semblance of morbidity,
I put my faith in technology, hoping
for the appearance of a screen saviour
that can turn plasma to wine,
pleasure to profit, and daylight to flashlight
as my quest for quiescence in the face
of diversity approaches a new frontier;
identity etiquette, the ultimate soporific.

05/03/2020

Posted on 05/03/2020
Copyright © 2025 Laura Doom