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Angels
of the wheel by Katrina
Mourn
the death of the capsule hosts,
The
purple angels turn to ghosts.
Spin
in silence shout and scream,
Hail
the power of the Voice Machine.
No
more friendly smiling faces,
No
help with finding places.
Last
respects to sympathy,
Panic
and terror reign with glee.
Condolences
to the seeking mind,
For
the void we leave behind.
Apologies
to all future guests,
But men in suits know what's best.
People
are pennies to the corporate
pound,
And
money makes the wheel go round.
Bury
the millennium celebration,
Killed
by profit generation.
Green
houses with air stale,
We
bequest to our friends BALE.
To
the grave we take what's best,
And
to the future we leave what's left.
Rest
in peace you men up stairs,
The
little angels did not dare.
Tell
the truth of falling wheels,
Dodgy
doors and contract deals.
To
pastures new we must now float,
And
when the great wheel falls try not to
gloat.
Mourn
the death of the capsule hosts,
The
purple angels turn to ghosts.
An
I in the Eye by Katrina Hastings
Thousands
of trapped voices turning,
Asking,
looking but never learning.
So
many peas in every pod,
All
the same but I am odd.
Kids
play spot the ants and beetles,
Scream
and shout, annoy other people.
Fathers
find their place in the sky,
Lies
flow freely in the London Eye.
Boasting
suits bark out buildings,
Instant
authority over ignorant ears.
Attention-seekers
have their moment of
glory,
Languishing
in their strategic fears.
Randy
revellers beg the question,
That
others are too shy to mention,
Could
some in-flight fornication,
Count
as mile high penetration?
Lustful
lovers forget themselves,
Hands
like thieves dive and delve.
Secret
kisses shared by three,
Them
not us, but them and me.
I
am peeping tom, I am Big Brother,
I
am the single and solitary she.
I
am the child, the lover, the mother,
But
the I in the eye is not the I in the me.
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