Atrium

Sharp spaced corporate contours see-through but not transparent.
It is the heart with no heart, the hub for the errant.
Clicking heels, clattering coffee cups, catty chatter
listen: the polished pretenders are practising their political patter.
Hard-eyed hacks pulsate in tribes or packs
with scales of slick suits, pink shirts, armoured backs.
He says she says not on the chamber floor,
whispers sinister, wannabe ministers, war without gore.
Behind, below, beyond, beware democracy
behold the banter and bustle of bald-headed bureaucracy.
And while outside chaos cries and reproach rumbles,
Sherry? Sign an EDM? The club believes they’ll never tumble.


Poetry by iRate
ACTIVIST. MUSICIAN. WRITER.
iRate Board – iRate Images – iRate Music – iRate Networking – iRate Space – iRate Tumblr  – iRate TV – iRate Twitter


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