Monday 17 April 2023

Mill ennui 2000 (draft)


& to be again by toxic draffs

its soil burdened with arsenic & mercury 

near the access point a large white marquee underinks 

lauded codas & coiffed fingers burnt plastic

tetches off this cloud remade again  

an image shrinks to some super-totem inverted fascia 

runs on teflon like cutting to your breathing 

a faintly baited linchpin

inclines burgundy bottles

with regimental ties for wicks, 

the Prince of Darkness Molotov Astras

1999 moving forward a beacon to the world

into the richness of the British character. Ergo.

Creative. Compassionate. Outward looking.

a triumph of confidence over cynicism, 

boldness over blandness, 

excellence over mediocrity 

harped, cupola one withering blimp 

settled at the mouth of the peninsula, 

Britannia strays dragging over shingle 

it vanished complex tangles

what invented future means in shining leaden water. 

& you float back into Enterprise Culture

etched onto its scrying glass spectrally,

extruded into deadlands

the last council-operated high-rise block red eyed

& everyone is left on carcinogenic marshes

a Chairman’s haircut congeals in correction fluid, 

& the sun atop the dome dances in the moonlight

O when that moon is big & bright 

it's a supernatural delight, 

when everybody is dancing in the moonlight!

the clashing oars are needle grown

out of HM Government but we ignore it.

Sorry is the hardest word 

but you learn from your mistakes remember 

you just like walking around its intrepid fantasy 

with elbows in the topiary garden dancing to

the architecture of moonlit colonnades, 

the custodial moonlit amphitheaters, the moonlit

night-club interiors as designed by Edwin Lutyens 

on old drugs & re-thought as a underground bungalow 

& exit into anti-ligature moonlit prisons 

with calico print on the walls

a low octane hallucination gets disinterred 

from the toxic soil to be put in an airgun 

& shot out at the menagerie rotating 

in the middle of the three story high complex

diminishing until nobody is left,

affordable plastic-clad buildings shaped like a Rubik’s Cube 

on the stated aims of the TMO & Client aspirations

endorsed subcommittees from cantilevered platforms 

narrowing to scalloped edges 

yellow spikes from heaven drop like arrows 

on logarithmic scales breaks shivered & skived

there is no door but a sort of oval flap,

a mellow opening tripped into flashes of 

your behavioural map, sunk its token bent out of shape 

but allowed to pass down a long sequences of spaces 

eventually hitting the Vent-Axia & crumpling into a opening 

in the arm of a giant figure that was a zone

based on the human body, this zone 

then divided by language, gender, & skin colour

& what appears to be blood 

with visible blood cells 

being pumped around the floor & walls. 

What is left. Shimmering lenticular titles, 

standing the height of the Stature of Liberty

an interactive scanner that would appear to find parasites on the volunteers body & multiply them. Large scale hair covering the ceiling, parasites moving through the hair

doing a Tommy Cooper routine. 

The curving plasterboard wall is indented 

with crosses each one carrying a TV screen in its centre

& then more, gently scouring the corners

 ‘the blessings of Tony Blair’ plays

behind burnt public sector workers a private door.

& the best picnics are on Agars Plough,

by The Brocas how can you forget massive gazebos 

Moet out the proverbial bucket! 

subsequent decades in variant forms across 

the city including the redevelopment of 

 its buried strata of contamination 

representing another kind of heat

 a zone within a zone; a cylinder of How Shall I live?, night rain 

a series of barriers & check-points

its infinitely distant far ended luminous watch-dials, 

buried in cesspits on the site to be opened 

some point in the nearing future

in some unspecified field

or else facing a rapidly violent descent

into the realms of anonymity, no forgotten people

in an undercroft a nuclear light singeing 

madness, or early death

to new entrepreneurial micro-billeted polymers 

now counts as a skin, as a face its complex gyration

in brownfields the cashflows to cowabunga pipelines 

pushing ever upwards into a toxic pyramid,

there are perks in chains of lead you can feel it.