A Political

I am as afraid of the left
  as I am of the right
    and the centre
      disgusts me.
 
Men and women in the room
  are screaming into mirrors.
 
While dreamers are adjudicating,
  legislators are dreaming
    of the real
      and perfect.

Roundabouts spin
  children off
    like peanuts
      into mud.
 
There are hidden eyes and teeth
  there is stomach acid and blood,
 
in the bushes near the playground
  in the puddles near the pool.
 
Enamel badges caked
  and cracked rust
    in these last few days
      before the flood.

It’s tailpipe weather, bitumen heat
  and rising desiccation.

I’m an old man, tired
  and lost.

When the water comes
  eating into metal
    its slime runs slow
      down bronze busts,

wastelands burning gas,
  chimneys pinned
    to spectacles
      and elephant tusks.
 
I see a strange amorphous creature
  lumpen shade of dog and bitch.
 
The corners of the room
  collide, the floor
    and ceiling
      switch.

In three out of four ways
  this is a normal room
    and all its grotesques
      people.

In three out of four ways
  this is normal rain
    and all its bombs
      raindrops.
 
But I’m pulled as Yeats predicted.
  Holding on for dear, dear life.
 
Deaf to the need for the sure untrue,
  the caught-on-a-tide, the do-not-do
 
of Lao Tzu, the impossibility
  of joining minds with a family
    sinking in an ancient
      boat.
 
When the word comes down
  for opinion forming,
    pressure applied
      to vote

it’s not the politician in my soul
  I fear as I scratch out my x
    but the imperfect rhymes
      of the poet.