Pike Bishop is dead

a text message counselor at 5pm
out of fish bowl, thirty centimetres wide.
we're sweating sickness to our forgetting
sun damaging our peak-oil polished hides.

he says she fucks but doesn't come in.
he shouts at mirrors in the bathroom
purging junk from arms and outside.
we're drunk on the bust and boom
advertising jingo lullaby.

but in god's grace or another fairy tale
they're burning people alive.
for abortion, Islam or new-speak
Coca-cola, Baghdad or sex for 1.95?

and even Pike Bishop is dead.
i heard it on the TV.
he laid down his guns and said.

'the animals are better than you or me'.