Visions of Albion
Flocks of lapwings taste blue-gold bitter sharp morning dew.
Fox cubs play on this frosty Spring morning.
Tangle, my devoted wool eye lurcher takes the strain.
Steers my 10 speed drop handle bar racing bike
Through this urbane country terrain
Along narrow twisted railway bridge Kent lanes.
Mad march hare manic mushroom dancer
Careering parallel hedgerow green and ploughed fields.
Catch white flash of rabbit tail diving into wild rose bush and
Twittering gangs of wide boy and wide girl sparrows at dawn.
Mellow sky billows with black plumes of crows and the
Hushed wing flight of rooks and
Mottled starlings heading for sacred feeding grounds
Alongside ancient bubbling mill stream
A Grecian grove which blossoms by the banks of Albion.
Water rats nest in the yellow clay undertones.
A buzzard surveys its kingdom and preys from the turret of the Norman church tower.
Startled blackbird alerting yellow hammer and gold crest to my presence.
The sun stroked earthworm
Sacrificed on bird table altar.
A holy sacrament
Permitting the nightingale in Bleak Wood to
Serenade moon struck lovers.
Later cycle past playful lambs.
Seasonal sheep shearers
Watch the setting sun.
Witness the end of an era.
The needle strikes deep into my heart, tunneling its way through the by-passed electric storm.
I feel the pain of the suffering planet ripped apart by the vandal driven earth digging machines.
Opening up highways through the virgin rainforests for open caste gold prospectors and cattle farmers.
Visions of the proud elephant’s fear, bewilderment and vast memory lost as it stares down the steel well used steel barrel of the cocked and loaded poacher’s gun.
Slaughtered in its prime simply to become an ornament and prize trophy in a glittering and suited Tokyo cocktail bar.
Tarnished ivory tusks look down at overdrawn credit cards blended in with hollow promised business deals.
Champagne flowing laughter, and the idle gossip of the huntsman’s horn guides the baying bloodhound pack to the massacre and
The air becomes thick with acrid shotgun smoke as bloodied game birds plunge to the savage soaked earth.
On the banks of the Amazon a patient Indian elder sits with the calling card of an agent from Rentokill in his clasped hand.
A scout from McDonalds holds out the detailed plans for the latest rainforest drive-in hamburger bar.
Listens to the future sounds and down river flow of cash machines, rising profit margins flooding soiled bank accounts, the aroma of hash brownies, beef burger medium or rare with fries and a garnish of garlic mayonnaise and a side dressing of tomato ketchup topped with a river of melted blue cheese.
Mescaline sunrise ushered in by Phadreus.
Seated in a glistening fiery golden chariot
Pulled by white steel elongated swan neck
Thunder hoof feather cap horses.
This muted ruffled goose down pillow night.
Long drape satin curtain thrown back.
Open up to a new dawn.
Ancient myths crawl out of a slumbered deep opiate sleep.
Peel back brittle layers of cracked earth.
Long shoulder length white haired sage meditates in distant and isolated cave.
Observes the habits of a midnight oil burning iguana blazing a trail through the dry dust.
Fiery nostril quivering, Red eyes burning, casting a meek glow in these subdued amber rays.
Breath in deep that icy cool clear mountain air.
A lotus spider weaves a mantra.
Chants to the gathering of Buddhists on Eagle Peak.
Writes down newly awakened Buddhist sutras.
Reveals untouched deep wells of spiritual wisdom.
Loose silk threads catch floating moon beams.
A Queen Bee abandons her search for gold dust.
Takes a rest on the stem of a lotus flower
Which floats midstream down the Yellow River.
Viva the Sandinista fighting to defeat the forces of imperialism in Central American jungle.
Viva the Pan-African and the African National Congress in its struggle against apartheid coupled with social and economic justice.
Viva freedom, dignity and the brother and sisterhood of man.
Viva anarchy and that this chair fails to collapse until I have finished writing this poem.
Viva in my dream state Utopia and a run on high street banks, the complete collapse of the money markets and a Bonnie and Clyde rampage through the City of London. Laughing to my self as one watches the stockbrokers and seedy speculators engulfed in a tidal wave of penniless despair and drown in a flood of howling sweet bitter tasting tears of remorse.
Industrialists stare down from tower block roof gardens vainly hoping that they can take that final toke from a contraband box of Cuban cigars.
Viva the lone revolutionary struggling to repair a breach in the snow cap ozone layer. Diving into polar cave, plugging the mystic gap while contemplating the beauty of this underworld azure cathedral. A totemic tribute to life’s furtive and hidden mystery.
Memories of dancing to Al Capone by Prince Buster at The Bamboo Club in St Pauls, Bristol.
Slumped in smoke filled Archie’s High Street Coffee Bar, Folkestone, with speed glazed eye balls as Marvyn Gaye and Tammy Tyrell blast out Motown soul mirror images of Italian mohair suit, rabbit skin Mod parka and multi mirrored Vespa scooter cruising in packs to Bank Holiday seaside towns.
Swim through this cracked ozone layer. The powerful torch beam highlights the cancerous spot spreading like the black plague across the weakened planet’s iron lung.
Soak in the thick glutinous industrial pollution, breast stroke a passage through the emissions of a dying universe lost in this futility as plastic cracked death rattle gasps resound against the padded cell walls of this urine and excrement stained lunatic asylum.
This is the last recall of a desolated, destitute, degraded pit of humanity
Which cries out in desperation for the need to build a new Jerusalem
Says that the lunatics have escaped from the asylum and taken over the planet
While white coated doctors take this as more proof of their delusions and progressive debilitating psychosis.
Love is possible,
Love lurking on a still bound frozen frost bitten lake.
Love sprouting from the brittle iron cased intestines of the poker faced Berlin Wall,
Love breaking through the carbuncled moth eaten Iron Curtain.
Love wiping clean the soiled Yankee green dollar.
Love tearfully hanging over the gas ovens of Auschwitz, hesitant and pensive, saying it may have to wait for a few more years.
Love washing up onto warm African coast line saying that slavery will disappear in my life time.
Love embracing history.
Love embracing mystery.
Return to its essence.
Love listening to the sweet breath and call of mother nature.
Childhood memories interspersed with dreams of the battle of Stalingrad.
The ravaged wood.
Trees savaged and uprooted.
Amongst the mayhem children play full of life and vitality
Blind to this environmental desecration.
Fragile limbs flit from uprooted tree to uprooted tree seeing it as just another adventure playground. Just another experience to seep into freshly awakened consciousness.
Chain saws slice through bird song in its prime.
The mute skylark left only with an empty waste land to hover in while flocks of crows fly east to visions of black beaks dripping with blood as death masks are soldered onto unfurled metallic wing tips created by deluded scientists eking out a meager living in subterranean vaults buried to their necks in a snake pit chamber of writhing test tubes.
The Lone Ranger and Tonto revisit the last stand at The Alamo, dance a tango with David Crocket, laugh with Noddy and Big Ears as they tell dirty jokes in The Last Chance Saloon and drink hooch till early morning when the barman flings them all drunkenly into the street to recover their senses.
Dan Dare and Digby fail to return home to planet Earth from their latest space mission as documented every Wednesday in The Eagle comic where it is rumored that they may have been incarcerated in The Mekon’s impenetrable dungeon hidden somewhere at the centre of his galaxy.
Stand in the middle of George Washington’s bridge, scan the horizon for that elusive American Dream while I clutch a green day-glo handwritten scrawled sign embossed with the slogan, “Englishman going west.”
Walk high above the dreams and memories and ghosts of Jack Kerouac and Neil Cassidy, try to absorb myself into a bit part in an ‘On The Road’ movie. Recapture the crazed drive across the USA. Scream out to Allan Ginsberg that I am on his side. See his body float down the Hudson River, naked, waving and shouting out obscenities before storming the barred and bolted asylum gates guarded by sentinel angels of lost forgotten frontier towns.
I am a witness to Colonel Custer’s last stand. See history reversed as Sitting Bull surrounded by his spin doctors calls for a peace conference and is enthroned as the 25th president of the USA. Indian tribes recover lost land and the white tribe is reduced to an ethnic minority.
The Indian Way becomes the guiding light. Earth and trees are treated with respect and have the casting vote in Congress.
Wild life occupies the voting booth of both houses. The bison en bloc choose to vote Republican.
Homo sapiens lose the power of speech.
The Mississippi River chooses to close down the chemical plants that pollute its life force.
The Pacific Ocean forces politicians and industrialists to clean up their act.
The mafia and crack cocaine dealers are forced to smoke their own shit.
Geromino together with the bald eagle meditate on Texas border mountain peak content to allow nature to take its natural course.
New gods materialize and make their karmic presence felt.
The Grand Canyon ceases to become a tourist trap. It is revitalized with Hopi Indian myths and spirits of the past. Dina sours and pterodactyls float in this littered moonscape. Somewhere in the distance a golden trumpet serenades a solitary moose as a ladder reaches up into luminous white specked egg cloud. Giant red woods switch into relax mode. The warrior spirit once again roams free. The earth manages to smile. Subterranean cheeks blush in this wilted volcanic sunshine.
A visionless blur of sterile monotony feeds my scarred thought trails. Left only with fragmented memories to fill these gaps in my pained, embittered and angered imagination. Nothing seems to grow here anymore. The city bankers simply wait for prices to rise so they can harvest the fruits of their embittered paper harvest.
Green radiant beetle casts a wedding veil across grey moss concrete block.
White pastel painted bright orange tipped butterfly drifts over the Alice in Wonderland weed garden.
Helicopter hornet head hovers on evening patrol high in the thick under grass.
Phantom fairies twist and curve. Dance on gold stud multicolored rainbow.
Pin stripe suit spider with piercing segmented eyes and rattle lips chews at the leg of a grass hopper before drunkenly lurching off towards the shadow of distant Bedouin tent. Pregnant heaving sac of impregnated hirsute belly.
Furtive glance at the phantom eagle which floats overhead on yellow ochre sulphureous cloud. Drifts out of wild Himalayan foothill forest and gazes out at the snow capped mountain peaks. Digs the crazed rhythms of the mad accordion player who dances a slow gig long tousled brown hair blowing in the wind.
A ladybird suns herself in the heartland of the succulent leaf. Feet up. Taking a well earned break from life’s hidden tensions, embraced in sunshine, sunbeam happiness warmth and encased by that gilded golden touch.
Take that risky psychedelic leap into uncharted stratospheres.
Allow the impaled painted savage mask to bite the dust.
Smash it into smithereens.
Five upturned flies forlorn in the sun lamp spidery web.
The windswept artist emerges from the desert storm to sip and drink sweetened mint tea by the caravanned roadside café.
Molten rocks break free from deranged volcanic eruptions.
Gangrenous fangs lick coated and festering wounds.
Yellowed eyed radiated ravenous rats gather around hall of mirrors stagnant pool.
Twisted and demented decayed computer print outs litter the acid rain Black Forest trail.
Aboriginal dream lines dream time roll out in red carpet fashion over empty tarmac highways.
Smiling Barbie dolls patiently wait on the curbside for the final nuclear meltdown. Maintain a staunch smile on plastic wax perfect blue eye and black eye lash faces.
Question the logic of feeding cattle with rotting sheep brains for Sunday traditional roast dinner after the long walk back from the village church. Fight of the chill during the sermon. Blindly take communion to quench my thirst with the red wine. Break the bread of Christ and ask who is it who allows each day 48 Kew Gardens to be razed to the ground and to vanish up in smoke, causing traffic jams in the far east. Who is it who allows the chimneys of Auschwitz to continue in their brutal work and who is it who each day allows the planet earth to be robbed of its innocent beauty. Who is it who has allowed the lunatics out of their asylums, dressed them up in bespoke designer label Armani suits and given them the illusion that they are in control as they go about in three dimensional mode, speak gibberish through television sets and utter platitudes and notes of reassurance with mogadon valium smiles emitted from curved sharp scimitar viper snake skin lips.
Caress vanished dream lines scattered randomly over planet Earth.
Encircle their totemic existence. Feel a vibrant electric shock race through the totality of my being.
Allow truth to emerge unscathed from a Rip Van Winkle mummified burial chamber.
Love blooms from moistened cloud cover and seals darkened holes in the threatened ozone layer.
Love and truth spike CIA and KGB covert plans to prop up despotic corrupt third world dictatorships in return for a few backhanders placed in secret Swizz bank accounts.
International bankers and politicians decide to pay off the third world debt in return for a dozen red roses and a slice of Maria’s freshly baked blueberry and apple pie enveloped in real farmyard double Devonshire cream.
The people refuse to turn a blind eye to the death squads.
The people refuse to turn a blind eye to political corruption.
The people refuse to turn a blind eye to the daily destruction of the rain forest.
The people refuse to turn a blind eye to poverty and to the plight of the homeless on every city street corner.
The people refuse to blindly turn up at their work place to act as automata for anonymous multi-nationals who refuse to respect and recognize international frontiers.
Surf spray graffiti sun splashed bronze Adonis body surfer chases the Hubble Bubble dragon water line.
Dissipated Zen koans hand written by wander lust orange robed Buddhist monks scavenge for the ultimate Dharma Bum along this rough and ready litter strewn Big Sur seashore.
Jack Kerouac’s pained and tortured spirit struggles to come to terms with eons of cosmic retribution. Recalls weeks of insanity. Weeks of the sound of manic typing from the isolated beach log cabin. Types in his beat up shack while the coastal winds cry Mary and the Pacific Ocean sucks one into life’s mainstream.
A couple make love amongst the rippled sand dunes. Unabashed she runs to the distilled water front to wash herself. This brief intimate moment photographed for posterity. She tantalizing reveals her shapely buttocks, her spread eagled ready to bear children curved hips. Sensitive fingers stroke her firm breasts as the wave prepares to break and wash those juices away. Just another picture from this black and white hitch hike guide attempting vainly to capture America’s heart land.
That Zen slap in the face. The mantra of the robed priest awakening me from my dream sleep.
Watch the rain drop slide down the window pane.
Notice the wild crimson sweet pea huddled in a firm embrace with the straggling rose briar.
Listen to the raging tinnitus hum of the blue electric type writer.
Tune into the slow drone of the World at One BBC radio news followed by the news on the BBC world service while coming down from a nightmarish acid trip.
The world is in ruins at my feet.
My caravan has suffered a total mental collapse.
My mind has stepped over the edge and will not return.
Black and blue drenched plastic umbrella drowned out by the slow calypso beat of the passing police car.
An endless continuous stream of traffic files through my deranged and misfit brain.
Hear the hoot of a solitary automobile expecting the first flurry of Winter snow.
Search in vain for the vanished four seasons.
Struggle to come to terms with my changing and rapidly disappearing world.
Wonder whether they have simply gone into hiding so that the composer Vivaldi can work on a brand new arrangement which will render them visible once the concerto is completed.
Tripped out in an Indian summer autumnal heat wave. Lost while rambling along dried out river bed. Watch the solitary heron clip the wings of the rising sun.
The scratched ten times eight inches black and white print of horses in the mist outside the door of my caravan on Mr P’s smallholding.
Flocks of redwing arrive back from tundra wastelands and the Russian steppes.
Cuckoos wait to recover forgotten Spring voices and to discard their offspring in undersized nests.
A kestrel circles overhead. Catches a glimpse of the ancient pike which hangs out in the cracked and parched bulrush pond cooling battered fins on the dry reed bed.
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table ride through Avalon in a heroic bid to rescue the environment in distress.
Dreamtime causes confusion in the real world, creates an identity crisis and to question whether it is simply an illusion in the first place.
Merlin resurrects archaic slag heaps littering northern industrial wastelands.
Junkies scramble for their early morning fix and look on in disbelief as rare orchids blossom on the grimed streets and Japanese cherry trees paint sweet and sour transient clouds on this bleak and derelict urban landscape.
Bill and Ben and the Flowerpot Men trip out in Toyland.
Noddy and Big Ears emerge out of the closet.
Mr Plod becomes Mr Big on the Costa del Sol.
Tourists flock to the English Riviera daily to swim in the 300 million gallons of raw sewage pumped into the sea around Albion.
Body surfers skate this slimed surf, duck and dive under the liquid nuclear waste pouring out of Sellafield and suffer from debilitating stomach complaints and glow in the dark while they try and measure the gallons of raw sewage which each minute, day, week, month and year pass beneath their surf boards and wet suits.
To the east dying dolphins are found floundering beside decayed river banks. Their smile and humanity wiped off their once polished lips knowing that they had failed in their mission to sprinkle this planet with some degree of harmony and humanity. Instead it is a witness to it dying and choking on its own greed.
Gangrenous algae spreads like a cancerous birth mark. Fork tongued poisonous brick chimneys continue the work of the mass murder Dr Crippen clawing away at the lush forest heartland where Buddha hit upon enlightenment on the Nepal-Indian border.
Tribal man follows in the path of wisdom illuminated by the flight of the golden bumblebee embalmed with sacred pollen from the lotus flower.
Tribal man contemplates the nature of existence with an opaque question mark?
The clinically cleared barren vista shrinks my known world into a microcosm of its former self.
Gaze out dumbfounded onto a crystallized waterfall as it expands its infinite boundaries across countless galaxies.
Now there are no untidy hedgerows to impede my shattered vision.
There are now no more swarms of mayfly to get up my nose.
There are now no more dusty honey flower dusk aromas littering the red brick arched railway bridge.
There are now no more bar tailed godwits, red shank, green shank, jack snipe, and wild mallards taking migratory paths to Dungeness Power Station prior to hazardous English Channel crossing.
The air is filled with thick petrol fumes.
The New at Ten says not to worry. It is just a byproduct of the latest oil tank disaster in busy crowded shipping lanes.
There are now no more larks birdsong sky diving, free falling through still Spring air.
Now there is nothing but an empty wilderness void of the plaintive cries except for white golf balls whistling in the wind.
Tribal Man kicking the shit out of someone on a lager fueled Saturday afternoon.
Tribal man on the playing fields of Eton dreaming of maintaining the well kept and manicured class system.
Tribal Man banters with obscene lavatory humor on the London to Brighton morning commuter train.
Tribal Man dances to the pumped up rhythm of exploding champagne corks.
Tribal Man in dirty old raincoat hot footing it across Hungerford Bridge to seedy Soho massage parlour.
Tribal Man decapitating the destitute matchbox seller leaving the road sweeper to clean up his mess.
Tribal Man wanders the glass wall citied computerized word perfect windowless concrete jungle while the ion sleeps.
Tribal Man squirming in pain from putrefied ulcerated puss filled bloated liver; a walking time bomb waiting for heart attack or brain damage stroke.
Tribal Gangster Man booking one way tickets for the Costa del Crime while corrupt politicians manipulate the latest credibility gap in the market reinforced by one dimensional newspaper readers taken in by nightly dissemination of misinformation spread by wet dream journalists.
Tribal Man squats beneath the Bodhi tree.
Please tread gently upon earth’s fragile crust.
Love sprouts from Reichean sprayed cloud cover. His orgone box lost in the Nevada salt marshes.
CIA agents collapse in hysterics as they fail in their botched attempts to prop up shambolic banana republic despots before credit carding another line of coke.
Thin metal rimmed monocled bankers draw a line under third world debt and refuse to invest in any more logging companies who come up with plans to sell the remaining rainforests to the matchstick industry.
Central American death squads find themselves ostracized by the local and international community.
The garden robin surveys the rich humus upturned soil. Waits for that unsuspecting bug.
A throaty blackbird sings from the hidden depths of the churchyard yew tree.
The rough and ready garden moves to the beat of that unfinished symphony, digs out those crochets and frosted pauses, a two/four beat, 168 beats a minute come cascading through the shrubbery, a waterfall of consciousness rises from the deepest depth cleansing my tired and tortured soul.
A poetical symphony revitalizing the lost pilgrim still seeking out the holy grail.
Rough clods of earth massage bare feet. Touch the earth Hopi Indian style. Feel the cool breeze, that short burst of April shower, that warm interlude between pain, happiness and early morning sunshine.
A young crow perched delicately on rickety wooden fence observes the chattering magpie clambering along smooth branches.
Turn away from alienated politicians.
Reclaim personal control and responsibility.
Search for new ways and values to solve the problems of today.
Discard this tainted and vaguely corrupt democracy into black plastic bin liners.
Kick it out with the cat at dawn.
Watch the sun rise.
Think about the pain.
The lost childhood that one never had.
Dreams which failed to reappear at midnight.
Wait for a tear drop which never came.
Feel an urgent need to be alive.
Simply to enjoy life’s intensity
Free from deep pain and suffering.
Remember those things which tear away at the soul.
The stench of death pervades this emptiness.
The crystal lake has lost its heart beat.
There is nowhere for the raven to fly to as it sits motionless on the rotten perch.
The wintering geese have failed to return to their usual breeding ground.
Silence haunts this wasteland.
A dumb viper hisses in the torn and tattered under growth.
Tear drops fall on Van Gogh yellowed corn field snow.
Out of this mayhem with a furrowed frown there arises an intense sense of subterranean anger and a clenched fist weatherman/sister is born to fight for the unwritten constitution of mother spaceship earth and the inane rights of all plants, animals, birds, insects and the chemical compounds which sustain the hidden eco spheres, the trees, the flowers, the shrubs which pour out pure rushes of oxygen into our busy lives, the rocks and mountain gorges, the sparse wildernesses which act as a welcome catalyst for new poems to be written, the expansive rivers which dance to the tunes of fishes and other exotic amphibious creatures, the green revolutionary fights for their rights like a giant phoenix rising from the ashes to reject the wholesale dogma of market forces and libertarianism.
Still feel let down by that infant school teacher who prevented me from playing the drums and gave me an insignificant triangle instead and the
Abusive slap drilled into my skull by the bought back from retirement Math’s teacher for raising my hand to ask for a ruler,
Thrown out of class, humiliated, made to feel a fool, act out the clown to hide my loss of self while the short sighted English teacher chooses to ignore pupils who blatantly take out their cocks and come in the third act of Macbeth. Try to stay cool and focused in this abusive pool of cum splattering my face and eye lid.
Slashed alphabet scattered upon bare wooden floor as another psyche hits the dust, left to be swept up by the unfiltered Woodbine addicted, Coronation Street fixated school cleaner.
Still cannot bring myself to forgive all these years later the damage that was done to my childhood innocence.
Navigate that blank space which hangs like an unanswered question mark. Try and imagine all those might have beens while trying to piece together that misplaced identity. Catch the sound of futuristic footsteps walking down uncharted corridors.
Watch the poem’s timeless spinning of its own web on this moonless night and coming to the end of its tether.
Wait by the flashing green Amstrad pause button for revolutionary inspiration and for the reconditioned fridge to stop its endless buzzing and for the television to transmit clear color images and for the television license squad to ring my door bell and to fine me on the spot. Wait for the tax man to send me a letter saying that he has finally unraveled the secrets of all my financial scams. Wait for all of my creditors to arrive simultaneously and confront me with unacknowledged IOU’s and for all of my unrequited relationships to come into this Picton Street café as I wait for my coffee to cool. Wait for a spark to melt my personal ice berg which has frozen and thwarted my energy flows. Wait for this poem to rattle to an end.
I am afraid of these blue pinstriped dark suited strangers who have unleashed themselves on planet Earth and have mindlessly escaped from Pandora’s Box, pouring sulphuric acid down through the bleached ozone layer causing chaos in the rain forests which are been rapidly cleared to build dams in return for defunct military hardware and to house the latest McDonalds or Kentucky Chicken junk food outlet or to build another road to nowhere.
The once rolling downs of Southern England blitzed by raging bulldozers and earth moving tanks blazing a drunken trail of brutal destruction through this once green and pleasant land. Just who are these strangers with those broad striped shirts tucked in with care into hidden blue Y fronted underpants who say that it is in our own interest to turn a blind eye to the mayhem which is patriotically unfurled as boiling asphalt spills out of black and dickered contractor lorries. Yellow hammered security guards draw satanic rings around chain saws as they sink their bloodied fangs into an avenue of sacred oak trees.
A white stallion gallops through the mist.
Golden hoofs pound the solid crystal frost soil.
Screams as the oak trees crashes down,
Thrashes at the invisible air.
The oak tree’s death rattle sends a maelstrom down into Albion’s underworld.
Calls upon the magic riders to reappear.
To spread their potent magic spells once more.
To halt the evil that has descended upon Avalon’s vale
Where in past glory days
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table
Rode free in this land of liberty.
I am afraid because
I do not know who they are.
I am afraid because
Six sperm whales were washed up
On a rocky shore,
On a barren isolated beach on Mull.
I am afraid because!
Out of control downhill racer, cycling into the Sahara void, oblivious of tomorrow. Taking in rugged mountain range, unperturbed by vacant desert mirages vanishing into succulent mind bending oasis. Cycle down the rocky spiked track. Sucked into the Sahara wasteland. Feel the exuberant manic life-force tear at ribcage pulsating madly out of control veins. The genii let out of Aladdin’s magic lamp, sent hot air ballooning above the simmering caravan train snaking past with a sultry line of tethered goats, smiling children, heavily veiled women and wise faced grizzled old men following in the footsteps of Abraham and Mohammed. I discard secret messages hidden in floating clear glass bottles to the secretive women concealing lustful thighs and rolling gait rose hips. Arrange clandestine meetings alongside mural led mosque walls. Exchange illicit smiles. Drift into this sea of eternity. Burnt up by fragmented seething mid-day sun. Bathe in the date palm oasis pool. Dive into crystal clear waters and the hidden deep dive cave. Immerse in the coolness. Flagging spirits revived. Step out with a new zest for life. Welcome this fresh start.
Stranded memory bank submerged in the dank bowels of a stricken ocean liner left like a torn and tattered 1950’s patterned wallpaper sticking around for the butcher’s knife to slice through the frayed umbilical chord. The mad prophet of doom silhouetted on some far away mountain top outlined with the hurried fly paper flick of a Chinese ink black brush stroke. Looking at me with accusing eyes saying ‘I told you so. I told you time and time again that materialism wasn’t the route to true enlightenment. That the pleasures of the flesh were only fleeting and transitory moments. That contentment and happiness could only be attained through the complete abandonment of desire. That the individual has to detach oneself from the lust for material wealth.’
Pauses as he collects his train of thought and thinks but you were all so wrapped up in and cocooned within your stocks and shares and fluctuating bank overdraft account and those endless mortgage repayments that you all have lost your footing as you strived to keep body and soul together, to stay one foot away from the bi-polar dole queue. The monotonous fortnightly signing on, the fear of losing everything and having to take comfort in London’s cardboard city, fighting for survival as one is forced away from Zen’s middle way spiritual path. Now the Night of the Living Dead zombie shadows awake from prolonged sleep, look on with horrified eyes at the pain and destruction that greets their resurrection. Cannot believe how much the people have been ground down, reduced to shivering and stumbling wrecks of their former selves.
Childhood mementoes. The ravaged wood. Figments of an imagined First World War trench warfare battle scene.
Upturned still warm humanoid roots reaching for the clear blue sky.
Teardrops falling onto decapitated trunks.
Flooded rat infested, overrun trenches.
Charcoaled remains of shell shocked shattered corpses.
This was once just another children’s adventure playground.
How was one to know that it sounded the death knell,
That is was just the beginning of the constant ongoing rape of the environment.
This wood was the first piece in the jig saw landscape to vanish in smoke in the name of productivity and progress.
Now I am left to drive through a hedge rowed desert unaccompanied by a symphony of birdsong.
The sky larks and wood larks have long departed, their impotent nesting ground ploughed up and sprayed with a medley of heart rending chemicals.
The deranged soil smothered in clouds of fertilizers and ancient hedges uprooted.
The slow ponderous flight of the bar tailed godwit,
The sea shanty pipe whistle of red shank with pointed crimson bill and fleet glimpse of white under wing.
Jack snipe rear taut heads from the swamp.
Flocks of wild duck catch the scent of smoky bacon migratory trails.
Slow wing beat of solitary heron.
Chameleon plumage of golden plovers cross the Winter-Spring divide.
Reed buntings sway in the breeze clinging to full blooded bulrush.
Now I experience the flight of silence.
Walk over this chemical wasteland.
Feel that the Garden of Eden has been transformed in to a desert over night.
The stock exchange transports itself in to a figment of my ruffled imagination.
The gold standard lies rusted and decayed in the shanty towns of Soweto.
Politicians, financiers and speculators now run market stalls in Petticoat Lane or have left their palatial homes, dropped out and run off with the peace convoy.
Anarchists carrying white carnations in matt black dinner suit lapels, spike the drinks of MP’s in the House of Common’s tea rooms.
The City of London floats acid house parties on the stock exchange floor,
Kylie Minougue dances the quick step with besotted bankers and bishops on the roof top of Westminster Abbey. The bishops throw their red robes and caution to the wind and are taught how to twist again by Chubby Checker and the Fat Boys.
The atrocities of CIA backed South American death squads are not forgotten or forgiven.
Victor Jarrar tortured and executed in Chilean football stadium has his revolutionary songs played round the clock on radio air waves.
Flowers are planted in the gardens of the Washington war machine.
Salvatore Dali paintings sprout from the guns of the NYPD.
The mothers of the disappeared are reunited with their lost children.
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table are spotted riding through the hills and valleys of Avalon.
Merlin leans back against the tower on Glastonbury Tor,
Casts magical spells and incantations.
Reawakens the slumbering Blake an ghosts of Albion.