The seven nation army generation passes away
another generation cometh
but this earth abideth forever
Sunday dinner is over, the
papers, gentlemen in duffle coats stand in a row,
with golden Parker pens and nosy accents,
appearing over the railing
of the stairs, for a second, yelling.
Yelling other things, to the children, who have
started crying.
--'wriggle like .....a....a,a,a,a snake'
--'wriggle like a fucking .....WORMmm'
dulce et decorum est
----Shhhhtt...Stay down.
-Duck your heads!
To the children.
The crying dies down.
One can hear the TV again.
A commercial for the Army: good pay, quick
promotion, see the world. Emphatic.
Persuasive melodical. Almost triumphant.
Reassuring.
They have made
their way up the road. God save us.
every so often they peep at us through windows.
A pole
is firmly planted against the door handle.
Knock Knock. The shadow doesn't move.
Everybody stares at it
through the dimming glass.
Like at a television-screen gone stuck
the pain grows specific, localised, somewhere around the heart,
or the stomach, or the lungs.
a perpetual loop of Dark Justice snaps.
The Corbynosphere encroaching
my feet and head drawn in, to shrink, to disappear.
duffle coats, get everywhere close to skin
and burns that filthy breath,
every day, I’ll likely grow immune,
& Beyond life
the twitching blame
of white chests, fragile,
momentums here again
in candid shirts, impeccable suits
like daisy chains come here to boot
my lifehole in
neated ties, shiny cheeks, well rounded
mouths,
Perhaps they don't want to kill us now,
just a little scare.
Minutes of
silence the faint light that flickers from
flag on the pole
my flag, Almost triumphant.
Reassuring.
Fading into grey,
whiteshirts, whitefaces the momentum in
a trembling mass of grey gelatine, melting away
towards the footpath and
then frenziedly freezing up again, solidifying
into the corner high walls
the blocks of flats, all those grey, blind windows,
pour grey onto the courtyard, engulfing insects
drenching the air and the soil with grey
Sunless skyless air
Or maybe
the eyes see grey, because
the blood, feelings, thoughts, are all getting
grey.
Some days later I shall have a grey
dream: grey, huge, dust-grey curtain
descending from nowhere into nowhere,
and I filter through, into nowhere, wide nowhere,
and then grey curtains again, and grey no-
wheres, endlessly
Death? And eventually,
in the middle of nowhere,
between four endless grey curtains,
on a grey, soft, delicate
bed of grey, a white pearl, shining and throw
ing
a
halo
A dash, or eternity?
The vulnerable, white skin, skin of a living boy,
skin without blood gradually, chest without air,
slack, thin stomach, caving in
the mad, frothing Corbynosphere
Corbynite priest kneels. He raises his right hand.
He drops it. His mouth is strained like in a
forced smile. He weeps.
perfect opportunity for whoever exists in a
condition where the values of life and death,
of love and destruction, have been turned upside
down. A great occasion for the mechanical
insects.
paws and mothers fangs
drawn in,
good
strong people's blood, ready to face
the world in the time-proven
cloak of justice
law, order, in the tissue of a lie,
in the frock of hypocrisy,
drawn over the flesh of pedos
feeds poisonous insects
Hands in their
pockets. Hands clutched round chests
eyes away from it all, up the hill
silence the faint light that flickers from
beside the minutes of
silence, putting to shame all "minutes of
silence" anywhere, at any time, under
any flag.
Perhaps they don't want to kill us now,
just a little scare
I see a man, or is it an insect
Corbynista
With his little deadly pipe pointed at us,
looking straight at me
Squeeze Susan to me
Suddenly the thought of her face still,
motionless, squeezes my
stomach in a hard, painful grip.
God, no.
Please, if you must, shoot at me.
Please, you bastards,
please.
Do not take my Susan.
All of a sudden,
sound again. Loud, powerful,
maddening sound. The huddle of before
is all on its feet. Everybody stares at it
through the dimming glass.
Emphatic. Persuasive melodical. Almost triumphant.
Reassuring.
who knows what happens next
Feet and head drawn in, to shrink, disappear.
The Corbynosphere encroaching
duffle coats, get everywhere close to skin
Susan, in front with me,
our immunity, our children, sick bestiality fantasies
in single line, one by one,
slowly, almost unbelievingly
the guardian angel light of PC Harper
shines on by
everybody has tears in their eyes,
but doesn't
mind them.
Encroaching the
buzzing noise rises again.
Gets renewed shouts, curses
From behind the corner, straight into the small,
vicious hole, wriggle like a snake
from he corner spill
ing over him, urging him on, with all the love
for life.
And he crawls on, wriggles on.
The TV again.
A commercial for the Army: good pay, quick
promotion, see the world.
Emphatic. Persuasive melodical. Almost triumphant.
Reassuring.
