it pains me, to return
to a narrative of England,
more so,
  since i am not an
Englishman.
         i actually have no
conviction, or worth
to necessarily speak
  given this dynamic...
       of a future, past,
or present...
            what a disillusioned
unfathomability fathered
by a relentless fathering
of ******* and asians
this country has become...
with a month spent
in continental europe,
i am trying to shy away
from the reality of
this country,
  but i am constantly
bulldozered by a sensibility
for angst...
  i am not, an, englishman,
yet i cradle this bread
and water's worth of
continuance as if i
were the son who stood
first upon these isles...
  i am not sad because
i am oblique -
i am, literally exhausted
by a feeling,
best conscribed to
a funeral procession...
     i watch this living
court of ergo -
as a mass synchronised
for a cull.
  for once in worth of
January, i am fed despair
having returned to
these isles -
  America is snoring
and least conservative -
uncle lambast -
      i am regurgitating
this pomp of an unfed
  imperialism -
   scuttling like
             rats in a labyrinth
of a lost citation -
  squabbling larks
among hogs of perfected
glutton execution...
america is exhausting,
most notably on
the british isles...
        after a month away
from the scurvy ***** ah-ding-ala-do
  cyst smoochers -
  i am becoming tired
of english sadness -
this ultra globalist
insomniac paraphrase -
      i feel a tonne weighing
a gram...
   by comparison,
the narrative of this land
finds no encompass in
  an isolationist tactic -
hey: gra-vi-tas!
          i return to a sad country -
having spent
a month on continental
Europe:
      i can hardly recognise
myself;
        England is
waiting for a cue without a coup -
          and when i say
that i sniff a rot
but enterntain opera
and pearls -
         i know that i'm speaking
an antoinette disguise;
for what hangs
above my pretty, noble
affair to breathe, is not
the noble sword of damocles,
but the populist guillotine;
less drama,
  more exec ruse -
  worth a pauper's demands
to adamantly state:
the beast that suffers least
in the slaughterhouse
tastes the best...
hence this, irritable
   scratch of forbidden
            bacon, off the crucifix.
i still cannot instill
in me, the gullibility of
        this, current,
unfathomable, norm,
           perpetuating
          a concern for lunacy
while mediating
               a care to cure its
own blidness...
   beyond the five blindmen
testing an elephant,
i'd rather see two blindmen
attempting a game of chess!
      if only one were able
to sift through the
            gargantuan blob
             of mundane
grey (****),
             and speak pop
like a ****** or a Napoleon;
or at least be famed,
   like the ***, for inventing
the stirrup!
or the ****** who said:
burp, be, beer.