Downtown in Down Town
Downtown in Down Town, the devil makes work for idle hands.
And we watch the box-sets on Netflix while the world outside burns.
Downtown in Down Town, the devil smiles as we forget her. She is just a myth, and she likes it that way. Her eyes glean knowing we are the believers of false gods and we’ll soon toil the streets of sulphur beneath, down deep beneath the Down Town.
And we watch the countdown to the product launch, anticipating the aroma of the shrink-wrapped packet. The strap on our wrist feels worthy. The glass face reflects our status. We cannot not smell the exhaust fumes from the diesel machines as they labour, they chug and they bury our old, perfect, products in the nightmare pits of landfill.
Downtown in Down Town, the devil knows apathy is atrophy. The sirens are the concertos of the concrete, a lullaby to the lackadaisical.
And we pay the charity directly from our salary, and slumber knowing our coinage is helping to save the world from behind our fortress of triple glazed windows and memory-foam pillows.
Downtown in Down Town, the devil remembers the Navajo who believed in good and evil, in the sun, the earth and the sanctity of all that exists.
Metropolitan Dreams 