The Bad Concrete Hotel
By
Graham Buchan
Inward investors afraid for their cash,
tumbledown diplomats ready to dash,
washed up journo’s with stories to tell,
all gathered in the Bad Concrete Hotel.
The Bad Concrete Hotel shows rusty veins.
The airport, besieged, hasn’t seen any planes.
No running water comes from the spout,
and the internet drops in and drops out.
That balcony is not to be trusted,
the bed is broken and the basin is busted.
The parched garden earth is harder than hard,
and there’s a girl by the pool with a business card.
The ceiling fan turns slower than time.
There’s a tale that the Governor stepped on a mine.
The switchboard guy won’t do you a favour,
and the beer in the bar has abandoned its flavour.
The Bad Concrete Hotel is starting to crumble.
Different factions are ready to rumble.
The crack of a gun; the crump of a mortar,
and you feel that your blood has turned into water.
A platoon in fatigues makes its way up the drive,
and you wonder if dollars will keep you alive.
A stoned soldier grins his metalised smile,
and swings his gun with a certain style.
The Bad Concrete Hotel will bury your dreams:
not your past nor your future is quite what it seems.
And those who claimed they had a story to tell
cannot escape the Bad Concrete Hotel.
The Bad Concrete Hotel: sarcophagus;
the Bad Concrete Hotel, a powdery tomb.
The Bad Concrete Hotel’s for all of us;
the Bad Concrete Hotel, I’ll book me a room.
The Leader’s Wife
The Leader’s Wife tried a bit of singing
the Leader’s Wife tried a bit of television
the Leader’s Wife tried a bit of art
we took the Leader’s Wife and tied her to a post
we took the Leader and tied him to a post
opposite
we shot them
slowly
Collateral
Don’t warn me about casualties.
Don’t describe severed limbs, burst eardrums and life-red blood trickled into pools and crevices.
Don’t picture me the flash, brighter than the afternoon sun, the shock pressure in the air, the loudness of the crack-thud, the sudden rising plume.
Don’t conjure up the sound of sirens, the rush of trolleys, the beeps of life support.
Don’t tell me of kids made orphans, mothers burying sons, men mourning women.
Don’t, for God’s sake, personalize everything.
Graham Buchan is a writer in London, UK. He has published five books of poetry, short fiction in a range of print and online magazines, travel writing and dozens of reviews of art, film, theatre and literature. He has travelled to sixty countries. Prior to retirement he was a freelance film-maker, and prior to that a Chemical Engineer.
By
Graham Buchan
Inward investors afraid for their cash,
tumbledown diplomats ready to dash,
washed up journo’s with stories to tell,
all gathered in the Bad Concrete Hotel.
The Bad Concrete Hotel shows rusty veins.
The airport, besieged, hasn’t seen any planes.
No running water comes from the spout,
and the internet drops in and drops out.
That balcony is not to be trusted,
the bed is broken and the basin is busted.
The parched garden earth is harder than hard,
and there’s a girl by the pool with a business card.
The ceiling fan turns slower than time.
There’s a tale that the Governor stepped on a mine.
The switchboard guy won’t do you a favour,
and the beer in the bar has abandoned its flavour.
The Bad Concrete Hotel is starting to crumble.
Different factions are ready to rumble.
The crack of a gun; the crump of a mortar,
and you feel that your blood has turned into water.
A platoon in fatigues makes its way up the drive,
and you wonder if dollars will keep you alive.
A stoned soldier grins his metalised smile,
and swings his gun with a certain style.
The Bad Concrete Hotel will bury your dreams:
not your past nor your future is quite what it seems.
And those who claimed they had a story to tell
cannot escape the Bad Concrete Hotel.
The Bad Concrete Hotel: sarcophagus;
the Bad Concrete Hotel, a powdery tomb.
The Bad Concrete Hotel’s for all of us;
the Bad Concrete Hotel, I’ll book me a room.
The Leader’s Wife
The Leader’s Wife tried a bit of singing
the Leader’s Wife tried a bit of television
the Leader’s Wife tried a bit of art
we took the Leader’s Wife and tied her to a post
we took the Leader and tied him to a post
opposite
we shot them
slowly
Collateral
Don’t warn me about casualties.
Don’t describe severed limbs, burst eardrums and life-red blood trickled into pools and crevices.
Don’t picture me the flash, brighter than the afternoon sun, the shock pressure in the air, the loudness of the crack-thud, the sudden rising plume.
Don’t conjure up the sound of sirens, the rush of trolleys, the beeps of life support.
Don’t tell me of kids made orphans, mothers burying sons, men mourning women.
Don’t, for God’s sake, personalize everything.
Graham Buchan is a writer in London, UK. He has published five books of poetry, short fiction in a range of print and online magazines, travel writing and dozens of reviews of art, film, theatre and literature. He has travelled to sixty countries. Prior to retirement he was a freelance film-maker, and prior to that a Chemical Engineer.
