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.