Ghosts, wherever I turn,
Imps that pick at my brain,
Those who died pre my birth,
Modernity victims,
Twentieth century,
Sad icons of beauty,
Wrecked on fake illusions
Of civilisation.
Personal, national,
Global, familial,
Too many ghosts scream out.
Wars fought for blood and soil,
Wealth, power, kings and oil,
From Somme to Falluja
From Dachau to China,
From Dresden to Gaza,
Korea to Cuba,
Vietnam to Yemen,
This list grows endlessly,
Day in, week in, year out,
War factories churn out,
Mass destruction weapons.
Dealers meet at giant fairs
But there are no fun times,
Helter skelter joy rides,
Bumper cars nor switch backs,
Only endless ghost trains
That carry death profits
To ghoulish investors.
In nineteen ninety nine
We sang our songs of hope,
For a new sunny dawn,
Business as usual soon
Brought all humans up short.
And still ghosts keep coming.
I am sick of this farce,
This death masque rave planet.
Bring me peace and justice,
If only for one day,
I’d like to not see ghosts,
It would be a nice change.

Harry Rogers in the yellow room, 22nd May 2021.