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Not Stillbirth, Not RebirthUntouchable night. Rainbows riven & forged in rusted iron. Sweet Christ! To be born into this! The light mutates into splintering silence. Post-modern. A crown of fibre optic & razorwire. Concrete cross on a wasteland. River runs past Eve & Adam. Dreams gear down into underdrive & the city skyline is blunted by fathom deep cloud. River runs past Eve & Adam. Into sad mire & bogland. Here, in this untactile, tactful, unplaceable place, every face is the mother-smothered mask of a solicitor, cast in a grimace of distaste. Here, there's no explosion of laughter, no riot of colour: only the supped cup of numbness & quiet disquiet. The river trickles like a slag silted tearduct: lustless & lacklustre. The television articulates our fears & lack of hope: now that paradise has been lost; and poor wee Alice has been sucked out of the looking glass. |
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This poem is featured in 'The Bad Seed', Dee Rimbaud's first poetry collection, published by Stride in 1998. You can purchase a signed copy by clicking on the book cover image below.
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