rain-reflected street lamps
glisten on broken flags
as shadows pass in plastic macs
of resignation.
dunes of rubbish
huddle in the doorways
of derelict shops.
Their signs a butcher’s bill.
Tower blocks look down
upon an ancient church
its empty pews secure
behind a bolted door.
In its graveyard,
promise lies buried.
And shouts of “last orders”
echo nearby.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
revised 19 September 2026
Unnoted birdsong.
Busy Bluetooth news,
About a tempting selection,
Of AI odalisques,
Tweaked to pert perfection.
Hand-held computer on a silent scooter,
Zero foot-steps, slow heart-rate histogram,
Going forward (as they say), yet backwards,
To silicone curves of simian delight,
And a chance to dance with the moon again.
Speed-dialled speed dates,
Over paper-cup coffee,
With the à la carte cast
Of a livestream movie trailer,
Well grilled before tasting.
Back-packed babies,
On shopping-mall mothers,
Hands-free foraging for funderwear,
And supply-chain fruit in season everywhere,
Reaped by some ethically cleansed fellah.
Ersatz ciggie smokers,
Botoxed Batman Jokers,
Modern Picts with Anime faces,
Androids lurking in liminal places,
As alarm bells warn of a virtual storm.
Cordless without separation anxiety,
Cashless yet rich. Dead still performing:
Remastered leftovers in the digital fridge,
Chanting PIN, AMA, FOMO ... SIM, RAM, YOLO,
While House Sparrows wait on death row.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
Ides of March 2024
