“A Weekend in the City” (Okereke, Lissack, Moakes, Tong) – 51:50
And all the smoke of the polis descended
Onto the band: synthetic drops and screeches,
All the hiss and creak of the city
Burnt onto a CD. Yours is the music
Of cigarette ash on a sterilized floor,
The concrete, balconied Babel
Calling back the peoples of the world
To a place that will never be home.
A man looks to the heavens. A plane roars
To God knows where, but here, on Earth,
It is silent, air has stolen the sound.
He is another man. It is another plane.
This is another tower, and our language
Is a machine screaming in the dark.
Sanjay