Miggle Engerlund Fantasies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

clinging to my national pride

mitsubishi dealership

not quite herding countrified
not quite city hard and wise

maybe the 15th in line to the throne
will meet me
at
showjumping
give me a coconut shy nod of approval
now i am gentrified

though not even mentioned in The Hustings

a limp but ego defining business in the autos
with the tax breaks
makes youz the one who’s used

i’m safe
i’m scared

with my property

that’s security
to me

detached A-Road bliss
clouds far away
looking down
Formula One
on the little people
motorway
bonnets shining in the ruthless eye
of my petroleum pulchritude

always a garage at the next turn

petrol
pasties
mini-roundabouts
uptight
white markings
on the tarmac
in the sun
the sound of
fuel injection
at the turn
into a countryside retail park

that’s my poetry

please don’t invade me

with your
poverty

I want to do my sick little
pervert shit in private

not see children starving

homeless

poor people
disabled

i find it revolting

lock that fucking box
pandora

i have cars to drive

and perfect wives to stultify

my child is more important

i have to fill her full of lies

fear

so she gets to Cambridge
so she can be on the telly

for Sky
that’s the currency

in my
Miggle Engerlund
nightmare
crime

 

What was the sky?

evil net of lies

The sun?

paper insipidness of death force

fear sellers

no

the sky is infinity

beauty shifting magically

not just for the privileged

the sun

the source of all life

filling hearts
with joy
for life

fire in every soul’s real heart

not some rag
poisoning
the innocent

 

Buy my belief

suck my cock of mediocrity

fear

bureaucracy
car advert
fodder

tax guilt suckers

betrayed by leaders later

heartless fuckers

bomb someone abroad

 

please don’t let them come

the poor

don’t let them kill me

i need to sleep
easy in my
cold dead bed
tonight

with a wife that doesn’t love me

my children don’t trust me

i need the freedom to drive
through

my

miggle engerlund

and my dreams
of ascot
deer
A418
premier league
rugby
showjumping
fascist drinks with the boys

 

pheasant plucker

don’t die

you’re supposed to be my slave

in my dream

of

miggle engerlund
and all that i hold grave
yet each night i grow more anxious
each night i grow more scared
it seems the dream
i held so dear
it isn’t working fair

i thought that it was organised
i trusted in my right
and that the leader
that i chose

lord mayor’s show

brick

through the window

would see me through the fear

but now

i feel the tension

of the curse i vaunted for

the evil
i signed my name to

the gloating
‘won the war’

and the lie ‘there’s something more”

but how all of these people

i callously betrayed

will not just lie down dying

and now i am afraid

my comfy little wheelbox
mission white lines go by
my cosy little ‘scription
to an evil eye
judging the poor’s addictions
as i accelerate
their deaths
my jocular tents gymkhana drunken knees ups
ribbing your mates
who are all as
thick as you

and my suffocating baron creepy opium

in a purgatory of halfway house country-city weirdness

empty and cold

hillsides of smugness

houses of phyrric victories

mid-life crises over-arching

and my loveless ego life

and my palliative charity work

just aren’t enough
to save me
from
my conscience

 

Luke Temple Walsh
Pic Claire Palmer