Let Them Eat Chaos

by Kate Tempest

And he’s paying the mortgage off.

  He doesn’t know why

  he’s not sleeping at nights.

  He could get up

  Try and walk it off.

  But he’s got to get to work in a matter of hours.

  Is he awake or asleep?

  He can’t tell,

  he can’t dream,

  he can’t feel,

  he can’t scream,

  man,

  it’s 4:18

  Life’s just a thing that he does.

  He rolls over, cold pillow, warm body,

  at the end of his tether as usual,

  he breathes softly,

  he burrows down deep,

  closes his eyes,

  and he thinks, is this really what it means to be alive?

  The days go past like pictures on a screen.

  Sometimes I feel like my life

  is someone else’s dream.

  Most days I’m dazed

  walking round

  I’m working

  talking

  perking up.

  But always feel I can’t be certain

  that I’ve woken up

  at all.

  Is this life?

  Will this pass?

  This feeling

  like I’m looking at the world

  from behind glass?

  Even when I’m laughing hard

  or falling on my arse

  Or half plastered

  before it’s even dark

  Or when some hard bastard

  barges past

  When I’m passing my targets at work

  I can’t shake the feeling

  that life hasn’t started

  It’s worse

  in the evenings at parties

  I’m standing apart

  My heart’s hard

  I can’t hardly be heard,

  but I’m harping on, barking out words.

  Is this me?

  Is this what I’m doing?

  I know I exist

  but I don’t feel a thing

  I’m eclipsed,

  I’m elsewhere.

  The worst part is

  I don’t think

  that I care.

  What am I gonna do to

  wake up?

  I know it’s happening,

  but who’s it happening to?

  Has it happened to you?

  I know it’s happening.

  But who

  is it happening to?

  Has this happened to you?

  I try new things.

  I shoot films on my phone.

  And play them back

  when I’m alone

  – Did that happen?

  I walk around,

  trying to understand every sound.

  Trying to make my feet connect

  with every inch of ground.

  The sky flattens my cap,

  battens me down.

  Everything in its category.

  Package and sell.

  Flattering girls,

  battle reality,

  it’s Battle Royale

  Everyone’s chattering,

  nothing is Real.

  Collect my salary.

  Cooking a meal,

  rice and vegetables.

  I exercise regularly.

  How do I feel?

  Whistle a melody.

  Is this

  all

  that’s ahead of me?

  I always thought

  that life

  would mean more to me

  eventually.

  I hate to think I’ll make it to seventy,

  potentially

  seventy-five,

  And realize I’ve never been alive,

  and spend the rest of my days

  regretting,

  wishing I could be

  forgetting.

  I know it’s happening

  But who’s it happening to?

  Has this happened to you?

  I know it’s happening

  But who’s it happening to?

  Has this happened to you?

  Just two doors down

  in the first-floor flat

  in the old ramshackle house

  with the novelty doorbell,

  the lights are still on.

  Zoe plays her music low.

  She’s got a bottle on the go,

  everything’s in boxes

  It’s been a

  long

  night

  packing.

  Clothes in black bin-bags.

  Blu-Tack greases the paintwork.

  What the fuck is all this stuff?

  There’s the road sign stolen from Quickshag Street.

  Shirts and skirts

  posters, CDs,

  comedy coasters,

  broken TV.

  Birthday card that her sister made

  in the distant past

  when she turned thirteen.

  Hair stuff, books,

  love letters she can’t bin,

  and outside the night

  and inside the last hurrah.

  Limited edition Air Max One Tens

  Che Guevara Bust

  complete with his ornamental glass cigar.

  For years

  the landlord never fixed the shower

  The mould kept growing up the kitchen walls.

  He’ll do it up nice now

  sure

  repaint it.

  He’s tripled the rent.

  He’s gonna get it and all.

  Only got a few hours left

  to get the room all packed and clean.

  Zoe goes to the window

  looks to the street

  lights up a smoke

  it’s 4:18.

  The squats we used to party in

  are flats we can’t afford

  The dumps we did our dancing in

  have all been restored

  Pints are up two quid

  the staff are beautiful and bored

  You think it’s coming round here?

  It’s falling on its sword.

  It don’t feel like home no more

  I don’t speak the lingo.

  Since when was this a winery?

  It used to be the bingo.

  I’ve walked these streets for all my life

  they know me like no other.

  But the streets have changed.

  I no longer feel them

  shudder

  Alright alright, I get the gist.

  Whose city is this?

  It doesn’t want me no more.

  I’ve had a glimpse

  into the future.

  It stinks.

  London’s a walled fort,

  it’s all for the rich,

  if you fall short

  you fall.

  You know where the door is.

  Board up the broken,

  do it up,

  sell it back

  make it bespoke.

  It’s all out in the open.

  It’s fine, man,

  hike the price right up

  and smile with your friends

  in the posh new nightclubs.

  My streets have been dug up.

  Re-paved.

  New routes for commuters.

  The landscape has changed

  I’m looking for the old tags,

  the graffs that once meant

  safe territory

  but it seems

  every hieroglyph gets whitewashed

  eventually.

  All I see is

  luxury tenements

  woebegone residents

  leisure-bent resin-heads

  puffing on pleasure

  Everyone reckoning

  something is beckoning.

  Never a minute here.

  Only forever.

  Towering towerblocks

  Scaffolding rattling

  Th
e Tube is a battering ram

  full of passengers

  smashing its way into town.

  We are scavengers

  scrapping around in the sludge

  for our sustenance

  Paradise partylife.

  Rubbing our shoulders

  into the mould.

  We do

  what we’re told.

  We’re Sisyphus pushing his boulder

  The kids are alright.

  But the kids’ll get older.

  And so I’m moving on. I’ve got it all to play for.

  I’ll be the invader

  in some other neighbourhood.

  I’ll be sipping Perfect Coffee

  thinking, this is pretty good,

  while the locals grit their teeth and hum

  Another Fucking One Has Come.

  Up the stairs: chip-fat grey and London green with damp

  On the fifth floor, where the wind grips your jaw

  and holds you in its clamp

  there’s a red door, bordered by mottled glass

  and inside

  a lighted lamp.

  Pious lives here.

  Pious is tired but can’t sleep, she twitches. Wired.

  She lies beside a sleeping body, a girl she barely knows.

  She met her in the pub

  and it went the way it goes.

  The girl’s name is Rose,

  But Pious is lovesick for her Thorn.

  She left her in the summer,

  and since then Pious can’t get warm.

  She’s carried her, stuck in her side, since the day that she was born

  She dreamed of her and knew her shape

  long before she saw her form.

  It’s 4:18, and Pious

  has been staring at the blinds for hours

  She tells herself it’s all her fault.

  She doesn’t love.

  She just devours.

  Can’t sleep.

  So much to do.

  I’m trying to get closer to you

  And you’re

  so far away.

  I’m trying to get hold of what’s true.

  And what’s true

  isn’t true

  when it’s day.

  Tell me, how can I sleep?

  Got so much to do.

  I’m trying to get closer to you.

  And you’re so

  far away.

  All that I say and I do

  are things

  that you do

  and you say.

  How come I’m becoming the one

  that I’m running from,

  hunted by?

  Slurring my words in the pub

  Feeing nervous

  and overexcited

  Arms round the waist

  of a girl who might make it alright

  for a night.

  Yeah, she tears me to pieces.

  I lie beside her,

  awake

  while she sleeps

  And I feel much closer

  to you

  than I felt

  when you were still here.

  Spill beer till you reappear.

  I’m thinking of

  you.

  And the things

  you do to me.

  I’m thinking of

  you.

  And the things

  You

  do

  to

  me

  Pain in my liver.

  OK.

  Shame. So much shame

  can’t bear my frame

  Can’t bear your name.

  OK.

  Can’t bear this game.

  Let’s play.

  New rules.

  Old rituals.

  Guilt trip.

  Heartstrings snap

  Want to, can’t go back.

  Too Much.

  Not

  Enough.

  I can’t get your claws out of my guts

  I’m thinking of you. And the things you do to me.

  I’m thinking of you. And the things

  You

  do

  to

  me

  This is my head

  GETOUTOFIT

  You didn’t want it.

  How come you’re still hanging around in it?

  This is my body LETGOOFIT

  You didn’t want it.

  How come you’re still fucking controlling it?

  This is my night. Get lost in it.

  This is my bridge. Stop crossing it.

  This is my face,

  stop smiling.

  This is my space.

  You been gone

  so long

  How come I still find you

  hiding?

  Fighting me.

  I’m fighting.

  The light’s too sharp.

  I’m frightened.

  Nightmares.

  Tighten

  my hands

  round my own throat

  You’re the snake charmer

  and I’m the old rope.

  No hope.

  Just go now

  please,

  just leave.

  You’re still in the air that I breathe.

  I’m stranded.

  Arms outstretched for a body

  Any body

  Here’s a body

  But I wake up

  and I can’t stand ’em.

  I feel so grubby.

  Don’t want can’t stop just love me

  Breath like a cigarette stubbed in the gutter

  Come close,

  no wait –

  don’t touch me.

  Ugly.

  Push and pull phonecall beep beep looking through

  names for the one that feels most dangerous.

  I can’t believe you’re in love again.

  I can’t open my heart to anybody but

  strangers.

  I’m thinking of you.

  And the things you do to me.

  So: here is our moment.

  Frozen.

  We’ve seen our seven,

  unmoving

  in lonely homes.

  It’s been 4.18

  and dawn’s still

  hours off yet

  My god and they are cold and listless

  not quite sure that they exist

  here in this moment

  slow as glass

  lips haunted by the ghosts of kisses.

  There is the endless saturation of the days

  and here they are

  There is nothing moving

  but their breath

  But watch now

  as the breaking storm outside

  animates the frozen moment.

  The sky cracks into a wild-mouthed grin

  and unleashes all the water that it carries

  Vapour grown heavy

  from every distant puddle,

  every lapping wave-tip,

  every churning river

  contributing to this

  rain.

  Pete on his doorstep looks up, mouth agape.

  Drops his key in shock and laughs a howling ancient laugh.

  The lightning charges through them

  rips the sky and startles every roof into stark relief

  and they see their city

  new.

  Esther hears herself shout a strange bark into the silence of her kitchen.

  Jemma sits bolt upright in bed wide-eyed and she stares at the rain as it smashes itself against her window

  Zoe puts her boxes down

  Bradley reaches for his dressing-gown

  See it from above.

  Seven doors to seven flats open at the same time

  and light the raining pavement.

  Seven broken hearts

  Seven empty faces

  heading out of doors:

  Here’s our seven perfect strangers.

  And they see each oth
er.

  Strangely dressed, one shoe and one slipper, socks falling off, smiling, gathering slowly, tentatively in the middle of the road.

  Shielding their eyes at first

  but then

  tipping their necks back, unhunching their shoulders,

  opening their bodies up to

  the storm

  And their hair is flattened against their heads

  or puffed up madly outwards

  And their hands

  slip off their chins and cheeks

  as they clutch their faces

  open-mouthed

  Amazing! they shout

  You seen it?! they shout

  As they walk towards each other

  dragging themselves like the wounded

  and band close, close,

  shocked and laughing,

  soaked to the skin.

  Joined in it, known in it

  Witness to a shared thing, theirs as much as anyone’s

  Bones struck, ringing in chorus.

  And in the morning when it’s over and they start their days as usual

  They will be aware of this baptism in a distant way.

  It will become a thing they carry close like the photo of a dead parent

  tucked always in the inside pocket

  Fading like the heartbeat

  Picture a vacuum

  Pitch in the vacuum

  Pictures and pictures and pictures

  And vacuums

  Indigenous apocalypse

  decimated forests.

  The winter of our discontent’s

  upon us.

  Desolate apostles

  slurping Strongbow at the crossroads

  We are nothing but an eating mouth

  Oesophagus colossal

  Will not stop until we’ve beaten down

  the planet into pellets

  before the interstellar mission to inflict more terror.

  It’s killing me it’s killing me

  It’s filling me

  I’m vomiting.

  it’s still in me.

  Everything is fine really, silly me.

  Poor kids shot dead

  Poor kids locked up

  Poor kids saying

  this is the future you left us?

  Stocked up, lunchmeat

  Processed punch from an unclean fat cat

  Tasty tasty poison.

  Carcinogenic

  diabetic

  asthmatic

  epileptic

  Post-traumatic bipolar and disaffected

  Atomized

  Thinking we’re engaged

  when we’re pacified

  Staring at the screen so

  we don’t have to see the planet die.

  What we gonna do to wake up?

  We sleep so deep

  It don’t matter how they shake us.

  If we can’t face it, we can’t escape it

  But tonight the storms come.

  She’s screaming, she’s screaming.

  The drones

  turned her beautiful boy into a pile of bones

  No body to bury

  Nobody is home

  Running from war

  The boats full

  The boats sinking

  a mile off shore.

  No beds in the hospitals

  Our minds are against us

  Imagine your daughter was gunned down

  defenceless

  on her way to school,

  there’d be uproar –

  but she’s collateral damage.