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TombstonesOnce; perhaps,they meant something.A father, 62.A daughter, 9.A husband, 28.They are nothing now,But the scars of time.A lover, 17.A son, 34.A mother, 53.When we gather here,We return themTo the ground,Unsure how longWe have.He reads Ben JonsonTo the party.But the child of his right handWon't be called on the just day.No comfort in the dead man's words.I pass by, wondering, what the stones mark; As children dance on the fields of the dead.
Discussions Of A NonConformistA welcoming sight. A huge white arch towers over three sets of bright, clean double doors. From inside, a soft buzz of activity. The doors swing open, then slam shut us people trundle into the realm of white. Fresh and sterile, waving the latest trend or trash under wide-eyed shoppers' noses, like mice spying a crumb of cheese atop a mouse trap.A terrifying tableau. Something looms out from the darkness, laughing and taunting in its silence. Like a mouth, it swallows all who would be foolish enough to heed its calling. There are no promises of bargains now, the only comfort the soft tap-tap of rain on the roof. But then, who would expect even a shred of comfort in such a light-forsaken place?Past the first set of cheap attractions, tending their fresh crop of goggling victims… I mean, consumers… a central hall, full of the usual East London bustle. A man flaunts his television / broadband / phone line / cleaning / rubbish / products, but he knows nobody in their right minds will take