Pray. 

For years they knelt
under arches, rainbow glass
and stone crosses.
For years they knelt,
hunched over the Good Book,
under God.

For years they knelt
under Golden Arches,
LCD screens and electronic
spires.
For years they knelt,
hunched over phones
and tablets.

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Brigg stow to Bristol

Spinning around the a4044
the unholy fuck of Bristol highways
jumping lanes and lighting up the
average speed checks.

Still I trundle towards
left leaning sideroads
turning around where possible
and creaking through roundabouts
and over snaking junctions
and castigated discount megastores.

Poetry is motion, light
and choice words stretched
onto open roads. Gyrating through
underground overground anyground
carparks; leaking into shopping playgrounds
and squeaky lifts. Smells of varnish, clothes dye, cleaning
solution and cellophane strip misconception.
‘Its bloody nice here’

Records spin, notes permeating with
old beats, complimenting penny whistles
and the thwack of opening umbrellas, jostling
shoulders and heavy footsteps.

This city of mine, grand and altogether
the product of 21st century jizm and archaic
cathedral hyperbole. This City of ours, hours flooding
to days and weeks to years.

Automata.

I guess machines are people too.
Prodding at buttons
And twisting knobs and remembering data.
Brains and pools of cloud
Swim in ether
Kinda like us, easing youth outta
Jobs and creeping about in secret lives.
Making life ‘easier’ when those
In the middle hope for
A dystopian future.
All the jobs are taken, processing
Completed with sharper metal minds
And more nimble fingers.
Photos snapped by drones
Because after all they can see
The bigger picture.
There was a time when an apple
Was fruit, sustenance and the first and final
Penance of the human race.
Movies shot on location by
Former aluminium servants
And editing completed by stripping
Away humanity.