Ragetown

There's a town out there
where few people go,
surrounded by a battered steel wall,
a gnarled and twisted gate.
Open to a single train.

The train arrives
at dusk,
and newcomers
enter Ragetown
through the carriage windows
or kick down the doors.
Ticket barriers are made
to be vaulted.

The streets ignite
after dark
with unadulterated pandemonium.
People choose their weapons
insensibly
as is the way of the rage.
The signal is a body
hurled through a bar window.

Mobs flood the main square
and the rage takes hold.

The fighting erupts,
blossoms into a no-holds barred brawl,
an incandescent blur of madness.

People unleash their fists and teeth,
some armed with cutlery and gardening tools.
Someone sprints through the chaos
waving a mace above their head,
another whisks their victim's face
into crimson abstract artistry.
A would-be chainsaw massacrist
caught in a flamethrower's blaze.

Windows shattered,
walls torn asunder,
houses flaming ruins,
streets obliterated,
the bank demolished
by an enthusiastic demolisher
with weapon's grade wrecking ball.
The bank manager
flings his cash as arrows,
then is flung into the next street.

Heads smacked against doors,
tables dismembered with knives and forks.

The road rage arrives.

Cars screech,
flail around in the dust.
Skulls and bodies
crushed under tyres
as a bus slams
into the steel wall
while lorries smash and crash,
horns ring down the roads.
A solitary woman in a trolley
careens through the mayhem.

The rage subsides
and the streets fall silent.
Only when the light returns,
it reveals the wreck of Ragetown
smouldering in the glare.

Wildfowl

On a Wednesday, bleak and drizzly,
the pond surface hardly sizzly,
ducks dabble and watch as the world
goes by with the speed of a snail.

Not a single thing disturbs them,
yet the dawn of night rouses them
to prepare for the evening's rave,
for the evening's great pond rave,
a rave all the wildfowl crave.

They line the waters in their droves,
led by the Mute Swan Club of Stow,
with geese, grebes and moorhens galore.
A moulting mallard emerges from reeds

to begin his set intended to please
birds from Cardiff to Tennessee
who gather near the shallow shore
to hear what tunes the duck has in store,
sounds not heard on the pond before.

The mixer rises from the depths
where the sticklebacks would have slept
had it not been a Wednesday night.
Distorted honking and quacking,

with feathers ruffled and scratching,
the rave rages and rages all night
'till the return of the sunlight
and all the wildfowl take flight.