Concrete Formal Poetry

A Sonnet about Concrete

Heaven is an orchard honey kiss
in pastoral cool air greening glades.
Hell is made of concrete and smells of piss
where people do people and nature fades.

A cold soup pours into the form work form
the steel float smooths it and the steel bars hold
the standard work form works to the norm
where industrial economy’s bought and sold

sweet minions walk in close to the walls to hide
true colours from the consuming sleezy
abuser of heaven they have inside.
Love is all you need, but it don’t come easy.

When there’s fire between your faces, nirvana doesn’t care,
it’s a neutral grey compromise pretending it’s not there.