To the undersigned I think I might sign this;
A scripture or a picture
Not worth painting
The gallery hangs...
And the similes
Sound like quiet or loud desperation.
If (at all) aware of imitation
Then at least make it interesting
And become a part of everything you hated
When you still had sense.
Other than that, play 3 chords loud (or quiet)
And remember that imagination
Can be yo muvva of invention.
01 April 2010
Victoriana and the Sins of My Fathers
Out of my window the streets are still bleak.
The unforgiving highways and byways of this dark and unpleasant land –
Built upon Roman roads,
Ancient tracks, Sassenach Cul-de-sacs
- Remain caked with filth, muck and ground in grime.
The labours and Miss Demeanours – “Pray tell. Have you seen her?”
Of the City’s already dead show up like fresh scars
On the slippery-when-dry
Cobbled streets of old Queen Vic’s London.
Sparkling like shit in the not there sun,
Rich on pain,
Insane, fat and bloated on the toil of the conquered,
In India, Africa and over here.
Dear old London.
Dear old London.
How did we get here?
And thousands of miles away
After a few gin and laudanum cocktails I see it:
Eyes glinting like the fires of Hell
6 and a half feet tall
16t of prime BSE British Beef
The word ‘Dangerous’ tattooed in blood on its sweaty forehead.
Slaughtering and raping through village and town
Killing without remorse in jungle and desert.
Bayonet and cutlass
Rifle and blade
Extract the succour of wealth where they find it.
And send the money, wealth and self regard straight home to Blighty.
The blood red uniformed machine –
Is shouting “Progress! Progress!
For Queen and Cuntery
I shall kill so that you may live in Glorious Technicolor.“
Middle class guilt and the feeling of dread
200 years ago it’d be off wiv my head
I’ve taken all prescriptions for historical wins
And studied reparations of colonial sins
What it comes down to isn’t worth shit
Things are more concealed now but only a bit:
“O, we’re so sorry for what we have done
In the torture gardens and under blood sun
And we’re so sorry for acting like men
Never again, we promise, never again,
Cross our hearts and hope to die
Jesus is going to buy us an alibi”
For Christian soldiers march ever on
Fighting violence with violence, bomb with bomb
Our brave boys, when will they come home?
When the beast is sated and we have our New Rome.
Because let’s not kid
We’re still empire building
Except this time they call it ‘peace keeping’
Different masters, same shitty pay packet at the end of the month
With a built in tax on foreign affairs,
Pointless crusades and
Same circle of despair, same pictures of misery
Same cycle of abuse that has been going on
Since we left the hunting/gathering pack
And settled down with our farms and towns
With our pills and Dancing on Ice
We’re just defending what with got.
What’s wrong with that?
This ‘Great Game’ will never be won
But while it continues we've already lost.
Waking up now, through brightening eyes
Forgotten smiles, hazy sun-rise and inflammatory headlines
And an impenetrable smoky hangover
I see the streets filled with the noise and the bustle
The giving and the getting
The taking and the receiving
The dying and the grieving
The power and the glory
The bullshit stories
And another dead marine
In the year of our Lord Mamon 2010
All human life is here
Where’s the war?