i

Yes, it's always the other side is the enemy

Who started it made you do it what you did

Ugly faces disfigured, cracked

Are in-my dreams

Old men, in armchairs

Port going round and much contentment

Why it makes me rage?

The whole earth a conflagration

Burn it, burn it

Cutting up in divisions, setting precedents alight

Just taking and taking-over stuff

No innocence

A wormhole to get your fixture on:

Fix leech, fix-in; and draw

Anything legal goes; anything they don't catch you for

Bore and draw..

Who listens? Who cares? Past caring?

Only the golden stuff shines...

...and nothing suffering anymore

Even The Guy who got us out of the mess

Has got on His horse and rode into the fading West

And left us masters, mistresses of our own playthings

The silver-fish scavengers in earth's wheelie bins

I don't trust anyone anything anymore

Even a good deed done by Bisto, even a chore

Is never done for nothing; hear them roar

If we say that enemy's enemy, then the enemy they are

Reporting live now at the scene of the cache in our radio car

But the enemy's me and you and throwing in all our wrath and care..?

Like dumping toxic waste that can't be handled safely

On a rum and cotton shore:

War won't compost

Let the other side find their sick labels too to pin on us

Condemn us as their sin and lay us low also

Everyone round the Maypole goes on cavorting duty-free

Gun-firers 1, United Armies 3

When the crime is big enough you can do it legally

Grab an Attorney General; he'll make things agree.

And the herring fall in behind the barracuda

And the prawns salute before they're snacked for tea

And a whole universe on earth is full of iniquity

Enough to fill the ether and pollute that too

Disposing us thus and saying we must just have to do,

No choice but all choice, a pick n' mix disaster

Not willing to give up a lying wastrel for a master

ii

“..while the balance of his mind was disturbed..”

Dabs, dabs, in the lucky bags

Get your shameful here

Rob out your lot and squeeze to get

yourself a good position

Somewhere you won't get noticed by the law

Unless you're law

Good place to grab a solid slab but not a spotted place

Where the wendy goodies go round about at knuckle-rapping

To make a programme or sow some more political agenda

No-one asks Who truly in this case is Rights' Defender?

Labs, labs

Swallow your own prescriptions

Make up a powder, give it a name; a cute description

Does what it does with all the pink panache of ITV reception

Rows overloaded in the pharmacy

Dibs, dibs; my squibs, this little jamboree

Lecherous envy dressed with moneybags propriety

A squalor of outrage from sun-scum who would be but he

Accepting the honey and changing places with the swatted bee

Rob, rob; 'rob's' the most loveable word

Moneyest sound I've ever hankered, overheard

Round and round; round the tub we go like ancient grubber-men

Learning alone and in the end to drink-in what we know

Finding The Babe in Bethlehem light laid on snow

iii.

“You shall not have measure one small and another large in your house. You shall have one just and

perfect measure for all”

Global's as far as we get with universals

Seek no further: man is the measure of all things:

Speak you our shattered ruin of a language

Prod with a promise: peace, and good provision, and a moiety of hope:

These are our good things

Whatever we scale we go scaling alone without The Living God

We run our unnatural depredations with no love

The doctor abuses language, re-edits shredded shifts

Already invaded by other edits' skewed and hungry huffs

To no-end an encyclical wound that would rigour a servile earth

Wrapped and mapped their own images go eddying round berserk

Consternation of contradiction, and all run solo for their parts

By definitive downright means desolation's half the crop

Using language like ice lollies, men jingle street vans, stop,

Every flavour but never that flavour, the one you know that they have got

Nor no price-list to show for the parents to know what lost as cost

You abuse universals you assholes because all is lost

In that place in the heart where your human commission should respose

By The Word himself taught to us; brought to us; by no little fuss

In Palestine once, and out of the way, on an otherwise tolerable cross

But words, as The Word, are for use, handy tools for the purpose

Inexact, dislocating, to vanishing points, no mains circuits,

Say you so, which to know, is a damnable code to acknowledge

Sluicing out the good juice in the marrow of fruits ghostly-purchased

As reserve of one's own of a vintage not troubled by Heaven's

Dispersed and disposed as a Common Good pass-lookalike

Pot water; name altered; nor chrismed with grace

Your flaw is a flaw of a nation, a station, a culture

Gross on overproduction, obese its protections; a fractured disposition

A whopper a hold-full of dissolute desperations

Untoldfuls of resolute differences of disaffection

In numbers, one all the same, laying blame, and all are atomies

Of brutal self-regard

Put them to bed, the old folk, Lord, they're mostly dead already