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Four Poems
By DJ McVey
Cuprinol Days
Creosote cuprinol vapours
cling to the barbecued air
hundred lawnmowers sing in unison
a thousand strimmers harmonise
as hoses wash the sound with a
bubbled cacophony of
Summer Sunday afternoon cleanliness.
This is hell.
This must be what it’s like to be dead.
Suburbia, peace, clean cars
gardens, painted fences.
At the end of the Street
a man from the house on the
corner is mowing some grass
not his grass but the
council’s the public’s
a strip two metres wide
running parallel with his
house along the footpath this
identikit housing estate
It’s not his grass, its
public property the
maintenance of which we pay for
through our council tax.
Yesterday afternoon the same time
he was washing his car.
and the day before that he was
washing what you can only
assume to be his wife’s car
The only grass on the property
owned by a landlord that I see
once a year is an
eight by five foot patch in front of
my house.
The backyard is paved a
circle of soil breaks up the
grey slabs a circle with a
long dead plant in a cracked grey pot
its roots dead but reaching still
like the skeletal hand shape a
tree makes at night
its shadow creeping across the bedroom wall.
At the risk of self assured
destruction
these are the things
I want no part of
[but
these are the
things I see]
this city prison
the city is the mind
the city is the subject
or the move into perhaps
from the cave the
founding foundation & fall.
In this city
nothing grows.
The mind is the city
‘have you the city on our mind?’
When mind exercised brain grows
matter matters excavate vicus
not the fort about which we know much
for in the fort is not the population, merely
the police of the populi.
Cities live in landscapes we die in
cities with no view of the land.
Abraided remains, human detritus;
neolithic society constructed by their graves
funerary monuments a marker for society
a totality of information
the total package of mans existence
just evidence of previous occupation &
use by those just like us yet
free perhaps if pre-Neolithic and
not yet farmers
this city as woman
for woman of woman
forever
can’t lose no excuse
for not gathering
now means hoarding
of field stuffs
and she who controls the
grain store
controls the seed
this city prison
gobekli circles
sign posts to
reversed world
of freedom from field
and woman
citywoman
fetters ‘n chains
nothing has changed
this country
this city
this cuntry
england is no wife for a poet
Sirens
Some days
I
Can hear the music
But mostly
It's
Just noise
Fuzzy
Vortex
Tinnitus.
Help me.
little britain
Brittunculi we stand
we wretched little britons
dwellynge in this ile
con
gli
altri
cani
Iceni against the western
the occident
blood red mask head
cadeaux diplomatique
pre bellogallic
brutus briton
broken & bred
our kids taking care of kids
& all the boys look like girls
and all the girls are wanting
r boys
boudicca’s king sends a
servant in return
for her war
mad drink
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