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Thursday, 13 January 2011


We're pushing trolleys franticly
Right through the shopping centre
Where swirling hoardes of people panic
Maniacally, they push and shove
And surge towards the open doors
Unsure of their next move but yet
They follow the crowd in trying to
Escape from it.

Distrust in frenzy, darting eyes
As shoulders clatter against shoulder
Legs intertwine and arms press against
Backs. The logic of the messy crowd
Whispers of the virus, a new strain,
As in the corners of our eyes
We see cadavars slumped in Poundland
And abandoned by the bargain rails.

Tunnel vision with the empty trolley
Carrying more nothing than anyone else.

Where to go, we unthinkingly think
As we surge out of the centre and
Into the open beating air.
It kills you in an hour the
Disembodied lilting voices call
And its the most infectious strain
We need to lock ourselves away.

We three rabble on the rubble
Motorcade our empty trolleys
Desparately, in idle folly
Searching for a quick salvation
And a decent looking man
With little child join our convoy.

The main street here is quiet and
Two churches face us, one, with queue
Of young and startled African
Young men looks like the general choice
But straight ahead, before our eyes,
There lies the grim facade of
A far more white church and so
We enter, leave our trolleys by the door
And no less panicked, settle down
Amid a group who know no better
And we sit.

I do not know what is wrong with me, but for the last three nights I have been having the most horrible, epic and nightmarish dreams. This one was characterised just by a relentless driving anxiety. I dreamt the happenings of this poem.

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