We do this for money.
This cheap lie is a pool,
A source of fuel.
Something to throw at the rent man.
Oases gather strange bed fellows.
Dancers, dunces and brides-to-be.
Centripetal from the compass' heart we'd fly
If this grand nothing giving ran dry.
Professionally un-American
We sleep talk hollow tours.
Break thirsty kids
If the PR is anything to go by.
Gobi throated dole avoiders more like.
A heart attack may touch us.
Children no longer do
And the old are christened ‘crumblies'
Derided for being parched of youth
And cynicism.
This lay-by, This sham
Is showered off nightly and at weekends
With galleries, concerts and things
We need to call ‘valuable'.
Our hopes hang on pin money.
Hamish wants to bury the mortgage,
Claire wants to be model
Brian, who once believed all this
Wants out.
We take tours bored.
Grit our toothy smiles, Tourism's draculas,
Leeching a corporate corpse
With uniform numbness.
We do this for money.
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A poem