Javascript is either disabled or not supported by this browser. This page may not appear properly.
War on Terra 

So bring on the 'planes
that bring down the towers
nothing's the same
all's hearts and flowers
while we go insane
counting the hours
until the game
gets devoured

"This is" they said
"War on Terra"
which fills me with dread
-maybe my error
but George Dubya's dead
eyes stare blank as a mirror
while Blair bobs his head
and the Pope gently quivers

And so we must ask
who is bad guy and good
who's Sherriff of Nottingham
who's Robin Hood.
When push comes to shove
who's the Man in the 'hood?

And when we decide
who to boo who to back
we will split and divide
and devise and attack
and be fuelled by the lies
that keep us on track
while the rich and their spies
just laugh at our backs.

We don't like the taste
but we like to see blood
on the screen, laying waste
while we're washing down bud.

How different to haste
-driven trenches in mud.

And those in the know
say please go and shop
take your part in the show
or the economy will stop.
And those in the know
also tell us that God
is running the show
which I find rather odd.

And the flames of the fire
will fan out and burn
until we get higher
until we learn
we have just one desire
to return to our home.

Until then,
keep in mind it's a game
don't think 'Us & Them'
when we're all just the same
we are born and we live
eat, fuck, shit, pass away
it is all ours to give
or take away
we choose how we live
day by day
beyond all this
what can we say?

The Way the World Ends

I am staring at the secret
where the water meets the sky
and the horizon still believes
in all the clouds that whistle by.
I feel the wind that runs its fingers
through the grasses, through the sky,
wind that blows and glows the embers
of something small to keep me high.

The world is growing softer
-It erodes more every day,
and the rock wears into sand
that melts into the sea
so that all along the jagged coast
the line is giving way
but the tumble of the cliffs and plants
is irrelevant to me.

This is the way the world ends
-in the corrosive tang of spray,
in the actions of white horses,
the only sure thing is decay
while the rock becomes the sand
becomes the glass becomes the pane.
In the secrets of horizons
we are beaten down by rain
while infinite dark forces
are giving birth to stars.

This is the way the world ends
-not with panes but broken shards.

(c) 2003 Richard Strong

Richard Strong grew up in Stratford-Upon-Avon and studied Drama & English at the University of York. Has worked as a theatre technician with the Royal Shakespeare Company and worked and travelled  in South East Asia. Has had poems invarious small press magazines, and currently working on a "predictably autobiographical" first novel.