Friday, January 05, 2007

Unfinished . . . .

the last tingle
of that shameful
but essentially boring
public murder
has been pressed
into our insectual holes
like some outre but
entirely conformist
entertaiment, and
thus London is,
once more, rendered
virtually unreal as
my mouth pressed
inside your ear is
a slightly radioactive
chirrup of love, cut
from the rejectamenta
of seperable time zones
& pulse-rings of
an ecstatically intimate
syllabic charge
endorsed by several
leading high st banks
who claim the
shudders we feel are
perfectly illegal, sampled
from within this
infested & private
discourse scat
is a forced community
of rope & wood & dis-
likes most of you. . . .

3 comments:

dfb said...

i watched the filth and fury again last night bits of your poem echo what mr lydon would say about the refusal of people to notice the piles of garbage around them as they walk thought the high street everyone all on the same page but there really is no page they kill a minor tyrant and gas dropped 7 cents a litre here glad to know what all the death is for in the end

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