no philosophy
I am no
philosopher
I am Paul
from The Meadows
pulled
skinny poor from the shadows
to put a
deal of fat on his bones
so how did
I end up here?
what
penalty did I accrue?
taking the
ten point deduction
for
conduct unbecoming
I place my
attention deficit on re-order
that I
don’t yet forget
smothered
in the scrim of this Hogarthian hood
every chip
toothed blue scriptured face
proffers
passage to a poisonous but
tantalising
hook
to write
the junk must I taste the junk?
peddled or
paddled for a sweeter flight
this
avenue never taken,
hedonic
ingress unwalked, unwanted
yet still
wondered
could such
deep surrender be so sweet
to allow
the most intimate of plunder?
am I
Dante?
corralled around the streets
of a
society that shows no compromise
amongst
the dying embers of fallen enterprise
eternal
damnable gyres
around a
fucked shit pyre
of
concrete, glass and broken humanity
with each
uttered breath a cold cocktail of profanity
the
bouncing soles of the air I wear may ease me
over the
gummed archipelagos
flag
spij-speckle guaran islands
slab
secure and fast
against
the counselled wash
an eternal
fossilised chaw
that
resists the fiercest chemical blast
lost in
this sea I cannot be but shaken by
the waxy
man with his head of startled hemp
and
coterie of cracked carbon
as he
breaches the domestic brink
turning a
key, his
shoulders
hunched in
protective
shawl against
the
spittled spate
he stares
back through me
for
sightless miles insides out, front to rear,
then
scuffles, rattling, townwardly
cannot
resist the insecticidal compulsion
of the
green and white purgatory
where the
neatly stacked wash of fluorescence
makes oven
ready your heaven
amid the
threnodial thrum of
a hundred
syncopated Siemens
following
that shuffling cortege of the bussed in dead and dying
I am
dutiful, altar bound, avowed and accursed
the host
with the ghosts in this haunted mall
lost and
lonely within England’s
mountain green
it is no
longer the god bothering needles and blunts
that draw the crowds
as flat
screened pharmacological rapture,
that
trinity of distilled, medicated caffeination
lead a
once pious nation through a precocious dream
maybe
Allah yet sees here his
Jerusalem and leads his children
upon England’s
land of crescent green
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