Thursday 2 August 2018

I went up the Shard with Owen Jones and all I got was this... (1/3)


    All rehoused 
and accepted bodies 
      just above the cut
      you see that power
is quiet and 
makes perfect 
oxygen, or in
     dream or aged 
 in the rain 
        you eat 
your dinners 
     half naked in 
glass light, 
   it is your blood
rite the
     simplest loop
to love 
   that gets inserted
is the whole
    at  tilt 
        the finished
         broken negative 
   all densely 
        packed up
       at a loss 
        through the 
        heart later
      on you 
   see your
          own sick 
frozen into
             and all the excluded 
        semen hangs 
      in the endless ceiling 
where sovereignty 
comes out
     big mouth,
        the sleep you 
        encrust in your 
this ideal
   space that 
     you love 
      that angel 
    looks back 
   the non-work
 catharsis in the
 death economy, or 
       the now-nearby 
      in red
         wet asphalt
       as it beautifies
        out all the 
     quiet zones 
   from the faces 
   on the job search 
         for a hope bigger than 
       a boxed in visage
    gilded in 
    the permanent
   panic, but
what can
     you do
to the dog
      machines eating
    your carpet,
         eating the place
       you still live 
             in your cloud bin 
      this hate object 
undenied the wretched 
    birdsong still
          I live in a porous
    welch it produces 
         sounds and people
speak to it on
my behalf, I 
would like my 
stolen money back