In every land in every time
a man stamps foot on dirt
saying: it was not thus before
and yet that Saturnian age
or Golden time
that Ephesus before St.Paul
the streets of London clean
with Empire knowledge
starched shirts and all
exists as through a glass
wherein we see ourselves
imperfect flawed newborn;
for the baby carriage is overturned
upon the grass we crawl
who knows not what we have lost most
through innocence or the fall.

CJHB 5th June 2008

Caught in between the cities and dreams
dragged in by philosophies
not of your own
but dancing on tables for the sake of the ale
and the spent driven
pleasures of taking it home
with the taste of the bitterness
still on your tongue
and the frank and loathing sense of disdain:
to the hills with the has beens
where the hope’s glimmering
for the hagged and wretched, fools following
to the art of their voices and remedyless
debt and with faces of faceless poverty rent;
so the steeples you’re chasing to start up that fire
of desiring and owning and running to the hilt
cheap swords for the soldiers who careless with guilt
are so free of the living they’re getting their mail
from the still forlorn pages of blank magazine sales
where they’ll dwell on their crisis all paisley and wane
with a love for its violence where charity fails;
in the morning with your pants down
all sweaty and tarred with the savings they’ve made
from the earnings you’ve gained on the last
in the line straight up walled garden of men.