If there is any hope it lies in the proles –
living in this town, lives on the dole
me middle class clown
can’t tell it like it is? Challenge accepted.
I am the last town anarchist;
stumbling through streets, pissed
and discussing Marx and Mason, desperate for a fix
to the problems facing Earth ,
staring black hole deep into
eyes of demonic Cabal, profit
power hedonists (Thatcher’s Children).
In Congleton I found home aged 11,
a town of love and loathing
Love – The Artists, the Poets, the pubs,
Loathing – Everything else.
Alien still at thirty
not accepted unless amongst friends,
stuttering and stumbling through concrete paved streets
and lighten up the Cathedral of capitalism,
thundering forwards, as we all force a smile
as oils in cylinder mausoleums burn. We forget though
sordid sex and drugs, the pornography of delusions
triple locked in a triangle of treachery (The Tory party defined in a
single line of poetry)
(Perevts are fine,
drink you body weight in wine)
crush the class system says I
Middle class twit who owns nothing, in debt to
banks and vampires, sucking at skin
burning eyes of greed in a sky of crimson red, bled.
I am the last town anarchist ;
So I’m not sure I believe in anything,
especially my words apparent power perceived.
Burn all flags,
apart from red and black
split like a thunderous splinter
thoughout history,
the buried –
the endless anachirst graves of
Russia, Germany and Spain,
buried truth.
It’s over,
relax.
Build something more than
this, ashes should rise
Phoenix like.
It is only proper, it is only power;
dispense with it,
Create a brighter now
kapow! boof boof,
end.
