The Boutique- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

The Boutique- Taken from Seasons in the waiting Game Copyright 2013 Robert Fullarton

The rich and poor

The colours

And the creeds

Either give

Reason to love

Or impulse to hate,

Reason to see

Or instinct

For political blindness

Wounds the man

And make the child again

All the moving images

In your living picture story

Cannot grant you peace.

All peace is relative

To the inconceivable beauty

No science of word

No music but silence

And hypnotic dance

A wild existence

Untamed from domestic

And dull mass culture

Wild for its oddity

And weirdness

It is a coat made

For a single man

A life for an unknown

Grannies sit

In the death circle

Knitting till doomsday

Office suits

Crawl like earthworms

Till doomsday

Counting profits

In the death circle again

These lumps of concrete

In between the moving tin machines

These are cities

These are jungles of despair

These are internal prisons

And external orgies

Masks

And contrasts

Where eyes turn blind

And ears go deaf

To the differences

And principles.

The heart is wounded

And no doctor

Can heal the conceptual wound

From the hideous beast

The city devours the man

The hunter eats the heart

Of compassion

The night corrupts

The day of life

All loudness in life

Is a sale or business offer

And I don’t want to buy

I want dignity

Against TV control

The men are stoned

On the pretty images

Of the beauty pageant

The women are hooked

On the morphine

Oozing out

From the high street

With butchers

Cutting fabric

And painters

Slapping slurry

On the faces

Of the stoned dead

At the hideous boutique

The stars are the candelabra

Of stoned dreamers

Eyes blown open

Sitting amid the grass

Hopeless,

Stolen innocence

To fully grown

Corruption in a suit

Doing the tango

With inequity

And their promotion

Playing dice and fate

For the charades

Of civilised man.