no stars will shine on parliament square with dreamy-light,
but clouds form a heavy mist,
drifting thru limestone cracks, uncertain and dark -
Monet’s fog looming o’er liberty in ecstatic chesty laughing fit spectating democracy’s final breath,
raffling a tenner in his greedy hand as he drowns in final whisky glass,
chokes on canc’rous fumes of tobacco-pipe, ‘red-faced ‘n’ laffin ‘bout nuthin’.
False prophets of politics ****** the women with Rasputin cause -
the forceful hand grooms the sweet bronze thigh of unknowing England with piggish grimace -
cries for divorce screeched by harpies of inheritance exclaiming expertise in Europe and stock-market and second coming of most holy Jesus Christ -
‘if Jesus wer ‘round he’d vote Brexit
tru ******’ Brit he’
‘Oh yasssssss, daddy voted brexit, mummy voted brexit, get rid of those ***** Europeans’
‘Waheyyyyyy, that’s it son! What a proud father I am’ -
‘Return of soveraynetee is a joy’us thhhhing’
Hear street-trumpets muffling voices under hush midnight streets
and sweet Thames flowing chartered down
tide crashing washing big masonry walls under spooky twilight piercing thru big smoke,
thousand constant lights of windows transcended over the fiery banks
serenading a river path -
thumping of smashing shoulders knocking people to ***** street path -
crowd marching o’er westminster bridge with hateful cause and patriotic guise -
hear the dragging of the mind’s manacles, the roar to break the chains.
O dreamless city under curfewed sky! where art thine stars? Where dost the flower bloom in Spring?
O dreamless city, thine streets brim with despair -
ghost faces under umbrella shell in designer suiting move entranced on the underground,
thru life and death, beginning and end,
transcending monument station
into the thundery January day.
On the damp grey pavement I was sewn
On the damp grey pavement I grew, rising thru cement cracks dusted with cobweb and cigarette butts.
Walking street after street thru the mass of smoke that rolls along the grey pavement,
and cars of ****** rich zooming past, awaking the dying cigarette sat old n gloomy in my hand,
commencing thousand proxy revolutions in the blinking of an angsty eye,
setting fire to torches that will burn in uncertain nothingness of dreamy night.
How engines roar in street’s machinery!
How sirens shout in tandem as blood drips from a knife!
How subway screeches a battle-cry from the dark abyss of the tunnel, deus ex nihil the war-mongering machine.
My cheek is caressed by city fumes
rubbed by the black sooty fog spat out exhaust pipes
and the prophets see visions appearing in the coal black fog
and the philanthropists see another pa oppurtunity
and beneath the liberal kindness of the city only money prevails (that disease remaining constant thru eternity, like Time itself).
does anything ever change?
nothing can ever change.
Still in progress; want feedback!