Wednesday 11 January 2023

The seven nation army generation passes away another generation cometh but this earth abideth forever (draft/unfinished)

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!   

The crying dies down.

For the children, at least. 

One can hear the TV again, louder this time.

A  commercial  for the Army: good pay, 

quick promotion,  see  the  world. Emphatic.

Per­suasive melodical. Almost triumphant.


They have made their way up the road. 

Presumably buying up social rent. 

God save us.

every so often they peep at us through windows. 

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 lungs. 

The Corbynosphere encroaching 

my feet & head drawn in, 

to  shrink,  to disappear under

duffle coats everywhere close to skin 

and burns that filthy breath, 

everyday,  I’ll likely  grow  immune,

or drop off 

& beyond life think of

that 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

the flag on the pole 

my flag, Almost triumphant.


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. 

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, 

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  throw­ing a halo 

a dash, or eternity? 

A Thomas Heatherwick stairway? 

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 


A Corbynite priest kneels. He raises his right hand.

He  drops  it.  His mouth is strained like  in  a

forced smile.  He weeps.  

A 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


paws and mothers fangs

drawn in,  


strong people's  blood! 

Almost triumphant.


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


Hands clutched round chests

eyes  away from it all, up the hill

silence the faint light that flickers from

my flag 

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


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,


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.


who knows what happens next

Feet and  head  drawn in, to shrink, disappear.

The Corbynosphere encroaching 

duffle coats,  Parker pens get  everywhere close to skin 

Susan, in front with me,

our  immunity, our children, 

sick bestiality fantasies 

in a single line, one by one,

slowly, almost unbelievingly 

the guardian angel light pulses from 

PC Harper!  

everybody has tears in their eyes,

but doesn't

mind them.