Grovelling

One limb hanging off, a misfiring prosthetic,
a grovelling, desperate gargoyle,
pathetic.

A weather vane pointing to history –
let it;
a value that’s tested by trade deals –
forget it.

This 21st Century monologue nation
will run back to past loves
with no condemnation,
will find itself hoarse
with a wavering cadence,
will call drunk at midnight
in wound up temptation.

And all in a wretched attempt to make clear
that we’re fine from the break-up,
the blast threw us clear.

So hazy, we dance with a dangerous beast;
we are ugly,
disgusting,
deluded,
diseased.

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