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Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Blog 35. Eton Mess - Pudding or State of the Nation?

This week it’s that slightly hefty mix, both gritty and viscous, of politics and poetry. So prepare for that large-bowl-of-porridge-without-quite-enough-sugar feeling.
A shout in a storm in the wilderness, forty feet down a rocky, snake infested crevasse without a map (or sat-nav) and no one knows you’re missing, might sum up the tenor of this week’s blog. I prefer to think of it as a pitiful inadequate plea – a flea of a plea - to reclaim a country, a history, a social outlook that has been appropriated by the so-called elite; i.e. those bastards whose ancestors were greedier, nastier, more manipulative and had bigger sticks than yours and mine.

Country my Country

Country my country
Oak and Chaucer
Sugared Slavery
Satanic mills
Burning light
Chasing shadows

Ancient tree
Deep secret roots
Time breeds distance
 Cradle Africa
Magna Carta
Branches reaching

Country my homeland
I may claim
Like bewildered youth
I didn’t want birth
But life’s a gift
A phrase for all days

Country my universe
Half my history
As the passive body
Is defiled ad nauseam
Abused by the little men
With their small parts

Yet effectively rutting
In every orifice
So succeeds the rape
Ongoing
Exhausting
Forever amen

Parade of the inadequate
Circus of the bland
Lead by the nose
Shaken by the hand
Of the oily sycophant
Plagued by privilege

See bovine masses
With comfortable drugs
With debt
Disease
Commit mass suicide
There’s plenty more where they came from

Mesmeric baubles
Anaesthetic TV
Celebrity
Crowd pleasing
Death teasing
Existence

Nation their playground
Send in the young
Where they won’t go
To slaughter brothers
Hellish pits
Call centres

Subjugate sons
Slice up daughters
Stuff them with plastic
Let them eat cake
Or fake meat
Or fatty acids

Acidic fat
Corrode and bloat
Clever that
Conveyor-belt misery
Shit for all
But the few

Dilute dissent
A gadget a drink
You’re better than her
You’ve got more than him
Buy this ticket and you could
Win

Country my father
Staring blankly
Wanting to help
No sword to hand
No rights no land
No words

How has the seed
Of spite prevailed
When better have failed
And the good do not
Endure
Close the schoolroom door

Blame your neighbour or
An immigrant
The grasping poor
Glare at the floor
Whatever you do
Don’t look up

Opulent tables
Sag with excess
Drop occasionally
A crumb
For the dumb
To fight over

Garden my sanctuary
Tree of knowledge
Tree of doubt
Pretty weeds
No violent deeds
Some shelter.

Paradise buried
Far beneath
Compact rocks
Concealed gates
With rusted locks
Coiled Snakes

Motherland state
Oppressed by weight
Of flowering ignorance
Plummeting down
To a new
Dark Age

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