Rolling hills, grassy carpet daisy-dotted,
Teletubby land but without the disturbing lion and bear who were the fear of all kids born in the nineties,
A vegan KFC plopped in the middle provides ethical nourishment in the land of Bedfordshire,
Red and white tiles, but we’re in England, not America – I assume.
And I can sit on the floor it’s that clean, just in the corner where I like it.
Cake and custard for afters and you don’t have to pay, obviously, because who pays for things in dreamlands.
Numbers aren’t people
Even with pound signs in front
Even if they signify years spent in a hated place
Pan fast through the city and it’s brown walls
Pan fast through the wires and the phone calls
Pan fast through the pipes,
Underground the man holes, pop out through the top Torpedo
Look from the clouds Parachute,
Swan, look from the navy night, keep cool in the star’s light
Pan fast over city with a speed unfounded,
Look down, reckless, as the poor stay grounded,
Glide past the city with a soundless motion,
Swoop past the city with a clouded notion of what it’s like to be a rat there
And bear the financial weight and the grating presence of swans.
I once went to the museum,
there was defunct currency all pegged up on washing lines.
I think you know the message,
it was to show the paperness of money.