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
Luke. Thought I recognised your unmistakable tone.
Comment by dave tomlin on 23 May, 2015 at 12:13 pmMost thankful that you recognized. In the mitts of my ‘personal pain’, which I am trying hard not to abyss to, recognition such as this, is a balm. Thank you.
Comment by Lu Ke on 4 June, 2015 at 8:05 pm