Incenses

When, from the spleen of creation's glory, smoke rose A dust cloud of cloven hoof stampeding, Rolled in salutation across the panorama Of the bodies smashed and bleeding. In the shrieking siren bawl receding, Blackout autobahns exploding With a car jam crashing pile-up And the hearses needing loading. And the summer won't quit goading, Fanning fires, blazing tyres and chassis, Spilled gut cassette deck entrails Screeched shredded songs by Shirley Bassey. The wrecks and mayhem seemed so classy When they howled and clawed the senses On the weekdays made for madmen It's the death toll that incenses.