Demolition
The thin, fragile body
Of Number Forty-Eight
Is seeping gradually empty.
First the humans…
The removal of brains is always pretty final.
Treasures, recollections
And furniture deserting,
They float from doors and away for ever.
Windows and tiles, such satisfying targets;
Stones are usually last to call
And bid farewell to a dying site.
Now, triangular remnants of dead-weight glass
From dusty, blinded windows
Adorn a pallid, desert lawn
Like tired retirement party bunting.
“This is my final performance.
And now, for my next trick,
I’m going to spew my carpets
And put my fingers down my throat
To cough and choke
On my fixtures and fittings”.
Now, hang on pal,
I think you’ve had enough.
We’re grateful and all that,
But no need to embarrass yourself.
I would, if I could,
Sneak in at night,
I’d cut your ties,
The veins of pipes and vital cables
And press you to a hardened little gem
(Like coal into a diamond)
And throw you high to the stars.