Fault
But for you I could have a cushty number in insurance, seventeen kids in Preston and a beige four door, I could have a sensible credit rating and a noose.
The life of quiet desperation gets bad press, but screaming desperation, none?
Art?
Art is just mental illness you can dance to,
My advice to you is don’t touch the stuff, move to Cardiff or anywhere they don’t have it yet.
Take up a good moral hobby; badger baiting, chasing squirrels into cul-de-sacs, rhythmic fidgeting, anything,
Anything that won’t cause you to persecute a poor, blank, page.
Pandora
Here lies a jar of hallowed antiquity
In who’s dark and conceal’ed interiors
Lay fates both great and small
But fair white hands did free them all
Set loose, on me, my kin and thee
What weathered age has spake a myth
Has cast me to my knees
To wait, to live, and to Hope
Martel
Your blood bled at Tours
Your kin held
Cavalry faced foot, and cavalry white-faced fled
At Lepanto your line lined the decks
As shot filled the air
They won the day
And you? You’re afraid of the flu
Terrible thing to think what your kin think of you
Home
Land of the creeping Starbucks of the soul
sparrows in mirrors and fun house cages
Colosseums wrought of Lego
Look on my works ye mighty, I despair
And did these feet in ancient time walk upon an overflow carpark?
There’ll always be an England
Land of hope and multi-storey
Noblesse obligatory diversity training
Grant to me lies in stone
Plexiglass truth, do not condone
Rough hand hewn, calloused rock
Recyclable cup construction begat
Soul trading on open floors
Oppenheimer
Had it set in?
Dead from gangrene
Smiles and good humour, bandages starting to reek
Beta Max versus VHS, MTV, and the locomotive loosed
Not with a bang this, but a whimper
Dancing in the streets of Lot
As it was in the Days of Noah, so shall it be at the Goldman Sachs’ PRIDE parade
The Hollow men, riven across the plain
Dead eyed, glass eyed, the eyes are the Windows XP of the soul
“I need these on my desk by Monday”
The keepers of the flame we, we who are not flammable
Bequeathed a ruins, barbarian me, bleating at the Romans
“God grant that my enemies are ridiculous”
And this he did, and us also
A photocopy of a photocopy, fighting dragons
He who stares into the iPhone take care lest..
—
I am become Modernity,
Destroyer of worlds
Kyrie, Kyrie, Kyrie Eleison
Middle management
Man does not live on bread alone
Dies irae, Imago Dae, employee discount at the staff cantine
The True, The Good, The Beautiful
Can we put a Sainsbury’s in the basement?
322 Cable Street
Leviathan bred, great translucent seven headed Beast
Bursting, full birthed from the Thames
In thee I see
Thine sides aslick with commuters drizzle
Netflix adverts reflected in thy Babylonian flanks
Shake off the umbrella rain at the sliding doors
As cheap flights to Majorca wander overhead
“fifty quid return, not bad really”
O thou, thou unholy thing, thy innards unconceal’ed
A thousand thousand Legion toils
Computer screen’ed
Your guts obscene, all usurious and comfortable trainers on Fridays
And behold, a pale horse, and on him sits the intramural five-aside team
August 19.59pm
Red marble flamed, swallow clad, and green leave fringed
God grants crowns of glory to the tenement blocks
Icons of the saints, with their satellite dish halos
Magnificent these concrete beetles
All things unclean by hand of man made
Redeemed by that divine and painterly eye
Shorn of disc, clothed in imperial purple
last salute of the seagulls
Who’s wheeling, and swooping, and settling on the big green cranes
Reaps in the last day light
Don’t be French
Stop it. It’s superfluous.
Tome
Never met a book I didn’t like
If I the Motte, the better part of better men the Bailey
Plato wasn’t much fun at parties, but part of he’s in me
and I know all the dirtiest dirty jokes
Fool
Though I could speak in all the tongues of men and angels, but have not her..
A crowd, a face, and hope, despair
What profit the man?
What once was mine, cast off, thine
In the losing, losing self, to become and come undone
Nemesis, foeman, reflected in a passing car
What once was wounded, once was moving, lingers still
And cracked, and parched, and prays for rain
The lost
Rudderless, riderless, unchaine’d bark
Tempest driven, thirst unquenched, Bacchus mocked
Harried on, on, on, the Styx, the Sahara
Hound chased, chasing
Libidinous, two become one, become too many
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