Casino soul in Hell

Casino soul in hell

I have a dream. No, not that one born of struggles

for civil rights.

This another, anyway,

wrong tense, I’ll start again.

I had a dream, well more of an awake dream.

I don’t want to use the ‘v’ word, ideas above my station,

and I’m not William Blake.

There was a man, I think it was the gambling man-I couldn’t see his face

but I could smell the money.

 

He was standing in a bleak town square, smiling, shrugging like he does best.

The chinos looked a bit stained,

Jacket was grubby but the smile was shiny clean.

He was looking around him, for someone,

desperately,

for something, urgently,

in his pockets, phone maybe,

but there was no one there,

nothing there.

 

Old style, red phone box in the centre right,

fingers grabbing at the numbers,

‘hello, hello, hello…this is me, I need help, a helicopter, someone will recognise me, please, please.’

Silence.

 ‘Help me…’ screamed like a final shout for life.

 

A girl sees him, recognition in her eyes and a shout on her lips along

with a pointing finger of bitterness.

Others gather round, calling out, shouting;

dozens, then hundreds, then thousands,

packing the square around him, snatching

at his clothes, his body, tearing, dismembering

and eating.

 

Then they’re gone.

 

Finally, a helicopter is above for Saigon-style rescue

but it’s too late except to secure the bones for a

reliquary. Or to give to the dog.

 

Eating people is wrong in almost every conceivable circumstance,

unless you’re in the Andes

but if there’s no cake with vengeance,

there’s always long pork.