Who Rocks England Now: 1/ Working Routine

Who Rocks England Now
1/ Working Routine

I’m thinking of something new to do, possibly dangerous, not based in experience, almost experimental. A good working routine is scrapped but like a machine, any routine can be hazardous to a novice, like a machine that swallows someone’s hand and jams up. And emotionally a cold calculating working routine especially someone else’s imposed upon you is as easy to follow as a barbed-wire fence in no man’s land.

I’m just not capable of daily work routines. My mind and my heart are simply at war with each other and a daily work routine creates a no man’s land of exhausting battles.
The working routine I was thinking of is a social one. The one of peaceful direction, that goes with the ebb and flow of life and creates stability, in which you can work and grow. That isolates the inner problems and gives you a chance to deal with them, talk about them, get them under control.
Life is like a box meant to contain gold but is filled with trivia.
Get rid of the trivia find the gold.

2/ the Metal Spider in Love

In love: I have the voice of a dead dog on the bright cold full moon drowning. The dog comes to life without a belly, a vertebra, in a coarse hide of dog hair that groans quietly in the brown night, musky and sad-eyed.

In love: I am a hand full of salt thrown at a woman.
I have the voice of a black lacquered cardboard wireless sound cone, home of the metal spider.
Her long porcelain swan neck cracks, her eyes float off, they pierce into me.

In love: I am the bomb blasted bits of a body disintegrating into nothingness, with droplets of flesh and blood evaporating into the Nagasaki sun.

In love: I am the reflection cut out of the mirror with scissors and placed on a billboard where at the slightest touch of the wind that blows through the whole advertisement vanishes.

In love: I am a castle with a soldier on the battlements filling his bow with rubber arrows to fend off the elephant’s stone desires.
I crawl and scrawl through the city of dreams like half of a prickly casing of a sea urchin housing carried by a red muddy turtle.
How swollen together are the steel gates of my vocal cords, how chained to the wall are my kisses. How like a doormat is my heart – do not say “forever”.

A dream is a fire tool, but it needs special material to make it work afterwards; to make it merge with reality; to make it react with the magic of suggestive items; to blend its shadows into them; to hook up into the heart a new biological drive of abandoned motivations and lost hopes.

I remember the terror of seeing my father’s death often. I became like a wooden cabin wall surrounding him, then maybe I became a coffin, is he inside still dying, living, dying, living, dying and there is enormous grief, storm clouds of grief, horror, terror at the prospect of life-ending, that tomorrow comes too soon.

3/ The Feel Good Factor

The feel good factor of the feel-goods
Is something that the world should just spit on
When lovelessness like a short circuit in the brain
Is the cut that stops a person feeling sane

Before I got separated from the love I thought I knew
I thought I saw the other side of the hill
And there I saw the love I really thought I knew
And my heart is buried around there still

Now beer seems to make a small room feel much bigger
And beer also seems to slow down time
And beer seems to put off the day of disaster
And it seems to cushion the heart against love’s crime

Horse stealing used to be a favorite pastime
To watch the horses run was like a breath
I sold them to drink a lot of red wine
But horse stealing to some is deserving of dearth

Big sir what do I wish for
I wish for no responsibility
This love is a millstone I can’t carry
I’ve loved you but you didn’t love me

4/ Good Love Gone Bad

There’s a burden of love that won’t go away, so real I can taste it on my tongue touch it with my mind feel it in me like undigested frogs spawn.
The light green trees of light, of Ash, and the flowers of Horse Chestnut spikes makes me wish I could produce more art.
A general fear of death, dying, destruction is taking over.
Everywhere I look I see a countdown to some ending, some disturbing mystery probing me.

I am a burden of love, now I become what I cannot control.

I am a human sacrifice adrift on a sea of flames.
I am a ships radio officer adrift in a sea of light.
I am bad love gone unhealed for years in a sea covered in floating medicine bottles and naked female manikins.

A pair of nervous sparrows their feathers smudged in a darker colouring visited my little garden of wildflowers. They darted away like two spitfires between the hedge growth.

5/ Cheese and Chocolate Cake

A cheese and chocolate cake on a plate
A date with a rainy day fate
I wait under the clock moon face

A cheese and chocolate cake lake
I awake, the silver moon in my mouth like the undertaker’s horse bit
The flood of my wits on the bedroom floor
I lurch out the door I want some more
To study the law of love wearing
Those rubber gloves I see every day on the street
From the jellyfish hospitals and nurses
How their poetry verses eradicate curses

One day further away from the station where the nation
Waits for the light hovering under the yellow whiskey glow on the sky, I try to
Plan my way but my hand is pulled away by the plutonium rods of a weird wind that makes me see visions of people mentally dying.

And in the station where the nation waits for explanation to the state of the cheese and chocolate cake
Left on the track how they quickly transform
As the moon turns to helium
Then into a pack of dogs at my back in plastic Macs chasing my shadow.

Shouting “hey, that’s the four-eyed git who couldn’t hit a football if he tried”

I’m nowhere, so I wait inside a cheese and chocolate cake looking at heaven in a mirror above my head where all love seems to masturbate out of hate.

More people fill the empty station, transform into a pack of dogs
Start barking as they run down the railway line of time
When cruelty was free and happened all the time
When the face of truth didn’t shine through
And the face of beauty was blind too

That’s this generation who are refilling the railway station now and transform into cows waiting for the cattle train from some buzzing computer brain to come and teach them how to escape from crimes they imitate after witnessing the murders in the house of love and shaking the hand in the rubber glove of their bedroom, masochistic dreams of schemes to build an Englishman’s castle

6/ Who Rocks England Now?

6/ Who Rocks England Now?

Who rocks England now, you cow, you dog, you wolf, you whore
Knocking on the door of the law of love – who rocks England now?

Who rocks England now, you smug jug on a silk rug by the fire of dire corrosive heat where the feet of angels stamp their feet in disgust at the blood and lust married in a church of rust.

Who rocks England now? You pigs, you wigs and Tories, Mr Biggs all trampling on blood and stained four-leaf clover standing on the chalk-white cliffs of Dover singing “Who are you kidding Mr Hitler if you think old England’s done” for fun while ladies in white dresses run from the maniacs we’ve become.

Yea, who rocks England now you bum who lives by the sun and backs war and buys his pleasure from a foreign backdoor. Yea, who rocks England now you scum you son of gun, you bum.

I ache for all time, I pain, I see the love going down your drain in stitches and sutures embroidery stitches. Yea look what you’ve become.
Just look you, mad hatter, just look.
Just look what you’ve become.

Yea who rocks England now you turd you bird of prey who prays all day for a perfect system to pave the way so you can keep your mansions, palaces, worldly wisdom’s tampons filled with blood and I ask what for so what. Yea who rocks England now?

It’s not your mother it’s not your sister it’s not your lover. It’s some strange world of another weather of steel and leather.
Who, who, who, who?
Who stupid dark destructive fool
Who rocks England now?

During the war, you were such a bore thinking more of the cricket score
Times were dull; death was cheap who lives who’s taken a foreign street
And out we came from that tunnel of hate madder than bulls loose a slaughterhouse
When the lights turned red and the BBC read through the football pools we
Drifted like sheep in the clouds of sleep
And awake to this technology and piss
Which is what goes down the drain at night
All the spittle all the spite the sex and drugs the lonesome cry
Of the suicide who doesn’t want to die
As the church is filled with the words of love
Of homosexuals, paedophiles and demons from above
And what do you care you got what you want
You middle-class bastard you working-class runt
You upper class snivelling fame-seeking whore
Who rocks England now?

I’ve never seen a reporter hug a loser

It’s peculiar how people starved of affection seem to group together like bumping cars in a fairground.

If something affects one of them they all suffer – in silence. Have you seen them walking along the street. If one walks slowly they all walk slowly in a sympathetic empathy. They hate to walk too fast with such a weight of unburdened tears in case they spill some and a stiff upper-lipper reprimand them.

Soldiers on poppy day selling plastic poppies for lapels. Their brotherhood. Their grief, their pide. They are the most well trained, fittest, intelligent soldiers the world has ever seen. As a group, they try to control their feelings, from each other, from the world. and they do fine until they don’t do fine.

Animals might group together for the same reasons. They share a common fear, a common trauma, a common need for affection, for self-expression, for self-defence.

Children grouped together in the playground make their beautiful noise, oblivious of thought or feeling. Instant spirits. When one starts to shout they all start to shout. A healing bond group that new arrivals soon belong to. But yes, if a child has a problem that is too big for its head it withdraws and gets isolated and stays isolated – like I was many times. Because emotion is a language that is not used by their parents and professional help comes in the shape of mental health officers and social workers who separate, coldly, their experiences into documents.

I look into my brain with my mind. I have done so since I was born. At first, there was nothing in my brain and now there’s too much. But my brain works overtime at storing information; preparing, cleaning and storing.

Mental health professionals seem to think that the brain is the soul and also that to drug the brain will calm traumatic feelings. Humpty Dumpty because he felt grumpy was sedated and put to bed. Then came a white spider that sat down beside him and filled his brain with Med.

There’s a group of footballers who just lost a game. Like an ambulance full of analysts the reporters dump serious, accusative questions on them.

I’ve never seen a loser embraced by a reporter.

Ring Dove

Every day, every time I see you, you’ve changed, getting
older, turning into a Ring Dove. There’s one in my garden
now, a complete Ring Dove, round, fat and feathered.

Every time I see you, I notice the changes. Once you were a
shapely young girl, but now, I see your figure going; a ring
around your neck appearing; soon you will turn grey, you’re
legs will shrivel and grow claws; your bustle will grow big
enough to support wings; then you will find yourself in the
garden, scratching around for food.

I See My Mother

I see my mother at the end of the telephone line. Smaller than me, looking up at me with her carefully gazing eyes.
Round, skittish, swathed in old clothes from a second-hand shop; and she’s almost unloved, starved of affection and
it hurts me so much to know that her life has been like this. I come from a family who never hug or kiss, who never
touch one another. A family who will hang on to dear life until the last drop of rain or tea; until life-giving spirit has withered and faded like water on desert rocks waiting, what for? Just for someone to touch them, affectionately hug them, and now she’s old and still it seems impossible to do so as if she were a prisoner, a captive who didn’t belong to me at all; a bird in a cage, watched by a bad-tempered cat that keeps rivals away. That I am seen as a rival for her affection is ironic, seeing that she’s hardly been given any affection, and doesn’t seem to know or care anymore, having accepted that life in our family is like that. It’s ironic too, how starved of affection, her children scattered like the children of Babel and developed different languages of their own. Now all she wishes for is a card, a telephone call or a letter, for these things have replaced the hug, the kiss or the touch of a hand

Emotion and Reason as Light Infantry

I was reading a novel when page 66 disappeared. It reappeared 9 years later as page 77 in a book about childbirth. I was watching a tube train pass into the tunnel at Aldgate when it too disappeared. It was later seen in a photograph of the 1st world war where it had crashed and had come to a standstill in the trenches.
How did emotion take shape as a beautiful woman who disappears when the whole night sky and the whole starry universe flickered and reset the pastures of time as a marshland of broken eggs from where she reappeared as a Hollywood starlet in a black and white film.
Emotion took the form of a racing car with a female body. Now the female body is crashing down the mountainside on a sledge into the forest and out and over the cliff into the sea. Litter pickers on the beach find her as a centrefold and blowing onto the pages make her come to life as a flame and after shaking their hands she disappears into heaven.
Reason like a skeleton is running around an electric circuit. Do not throw the switch. Reason like a fossil has woken up to discover itself inside a falling tower crashing onto a modern battlefield and as it falls and disintegrates it turns into a swarm of wasps.

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