Never mind, it should be one word,
the tattooed epitaph of a generation.
Nevermind, the raven builds its nest
with twigs of apathy and nihilism.
Nevermind, we have out shelters
constructed from turned eyes.
Nevermind, we won’t hear the bombs
through the screening of our boredom.
Nevermind, we won’t feel the blast
past cemented layers of sloth.
will soon drink up and go home,
as soon as it has finished
beating down on its neighbour.
will be drinking up and heading home
just as soon as it finishes
pissing behind this barstool.
is just about to down its pint and head on home,
after blowing its taxi fare
on the grease-ridden slot machine in the corner.
will momentarily slurp the dregs and head out the door
but only after making a horrendous pass
at its best mate’s girl.
drinks up and goes home
only to find that no one cares to remember
where its home is.