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.
Reassuring.
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.
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.
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
insects.
paws and mothers fangs
drawn in,
good
strong people's blood!
Almost triumphant.
Reassuring.
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
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
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, 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.
