It’s known you never get a bit of peace
When sitting on your own, quiet, in prayer.
A voice is always at you; nonetheless
An expert can sit cross legged on a chair
And get what Buddhist converts have called ‘bliss’.
These days, myself, eyes closed and on my rear,
The silence falls so easily because
I’m sick of me, sick of the human race.
The slightest sound inside my head’s enough
To make my soul observe nonchalantly,
Then turn aside. It is almost a proof
That what St John said, namely: ‘Make the way
Straight and repent, repent, the Kingdom of
Heaven is near’ means: Everyone today
Will get a bonus if they see their sin.
The bonus: unfamiliar quiet within.
The media says that suicide’s abroad
Walking about the land, making us die.
Men, women, neutrals, cannot bear the load
Of being alive. But that don’t bother me.
I heard once, a black man never died
By his own hand, because black men aren’t free
To cut their life short on their own volition;
They fight on, like a crooked politician.
And that’s what I’m like, too proud to give up,
But not black, not queer, the eternal man
Uninterested really in such crap
As my identity. It’s all just sin.
And I’m the worst of all, just such a creep
As has no self-respect of any kind
And often, these days, out of my own mind.
‘Make straight the ways’, make straight the land, okay?
‘Be baptised’, Come and be drowned here!, more like.
Things are so weak and comic; the UK
Has turned into a bed for that said plague
Of suicides and lies and misery,
That all things bring a smile, a happy joke!
An upside down place, back to front, and mad
Can make you laugh, and that cannot be bad.
The story of the end, if you ask me,
Began when all the flower and manliness
Cream of the crop at university
Elected to go into finances
And services, to study PPE.
Not like the old days, times of romances
When they were soldiers, priests. These days they’re bankers
A generation of hard working wankers.
There’s several hundred thousand of the elite
Working in London like an anarchy.
They do the tax evasion and the flight
Of money from the world for oligarchy
And there’s no bigger point to life than that
Out there, somewhere in London, rich and smokey.
The English gentleman became, as a whole tribe
A slippery fish in money round the globe.
But oh, enough. If most people get poor
And there’s no guts in MPs (just like Pilate)
Who cares if there’s no England anymore?
That women are no more, no woman’s toilet
In any public place, and no man’s either
Because today’s youth want to spoil and spoil it?
What need have I to write out what it means?
There is no need, and yet this poem runs.
Back in the day, a long long time ago,
Someone invited Ukraine to join in
This spreading desert, and to join Nato.
Years later, Vladimir, and President, Putin
Took back Ukraine, like one who didn’t know:
That Western ways have done away with war
Along with justice, nature, truth and law.
Now, pardon, father, for love of my God,
I have attained the age of forty-six
And feel responsible to wield a sword
Or, have a rifle slung and in my mits
When any government, or good or bad
Requires men in trenches somewhere abroad.
Despite this being a locked-down, surveilled land
All medicated, gay, out of its mind.
O, for a place, where the immortal spirit
And source of life, the kingly human mind,
Is said to be such, and given that merit
By crowds of people of a common kind,
Who say, ‘Around this light that we inherit
There is God’s rich darkness, which we will find.’
We’re born from woman’s origin of the world
And can’t keep from her ‘origin of the world’
But though a woman gave birth to us all
A God created us and gave this place.
And, O for a place where this was general
Where everything was done because of this!
Instead, today, as far as I can tell
Over the years, the crowd assumed the voice
The good, and all the power of Christ and God.
This hybris makes me sick and shake my head.
What should I say? What say? I can’t be arsed.
I can be arsed, maybe; I’ve written this much.
So this, I’ll say: ‘Come here, and be baptised’
Just like St John, I’d say: ‘Repent, repent’
You sick, degenerate nation, I’m amazed,
At all the things that you have legalised
And all the laws of God that you ignore.
Look inward and be young, like you once were.
I used to think, and often sometimes think
That if I prayed hard (when a man is boozing
And sees things differently with yet more drink)
That God’s own home would be revealed in vision
And that the other world beyond the brink
Of this, would be revealed, outside this prison.
But now I see, that heaven and God’s creation
Is this world, here, around me, fate, this person.
But that’s enough; this is not a conclusion
I’ll probably say the same another time
In other moments of Britain’s confusion
And put the stuff into a mocking rhyme.
I don’t suppose there’s many like the lesson
But what’s the worst can happen for a hymn
I wrote when feeling merry and yet sad?
What, lock me up and take away my head?
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