Millennium

Phallic missiles
ejaculating death
polluted my boyhood’s dreams,
the end was fucking nigh.

“Tonight the world will end”,

said our demure handmaid, gently,
as she recoiled into her forest
of shadows,

the hours fading
slowly…

That night
I looked up at the crying stars,
I waited waited, trembling,
for flashes of celestial wrath,
prophesied hellfire on a petrol doused earth,
for we dared to laugh and to cry,
to love and to dance,
to lark and to fly.

America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb,

a now dead poet wrote,
love riots ran amok,
for uncle I feared,
in the midst of the crack he dwelt,
a penchant he had for Beethoven’s Eroica
and Cuban rum.

Unholy Neruda’s Canto General,
into my life breathed,
awakening a desire to name
the sky beyond my stars,

past lush ocean lined avenues we went,
up steep hills where dark rats
in heavenly open sewers dwelt,
where children, tidy, neat,
down hidden slits looked, coyly,
reluctant zoo animals,
dreaming…

I, by golden beaches tanned
on the shores of the intense Pacific,
by the glitter of boulevards blessed,
by a dazzling family anointed,
I watched and watched,
and, in silence, I cried.

Rivers of rage
through my veins cursed,
the Grand Inquisitor’s vomit urged us
to look for them
child snatching commie bastards

to steal our money they wanted!
to make us speak Russian they wanted!

to look for them to look for them
under our beds
under our skies
under our skins…

I saw cardboard castles
that like kites could fly,

I saw rivers of shit
lapping on their shores,
in Spanish,

I saw spilt blood, crimson
of my own blood,

I saw stormy skies,
my own skies,

I saw far dreams
my own dreams,

I saw profound hope,
my own hope,

I saw despair,
despair became
delusion,

I saw a voice,
a voice forged solid
deep deep
down my entrails.

Out we went,
out of the murky flow
our lives we reclaimed,
below, the underworld’s dance

inexorably
broke the fossilized crust
of day to day voices, rites, routines,

inexorably
divested our souls
of their pompous robes
until shivering they stood

with the ugliness of naked greed.

Out we went,
we shouted we shouted,

for those who couldn’t see
we shouted our pain,

for those jailed for a penny
we shouted our grief,

for the girl who frolicked under the sun
we shouted our lust,

to those blinded by gold’s glitter
we shouted our anger,

we shouted we shouted,
we shouted words that like aimless kites flew,

we shouted black masked in trembling streets
that soon would be painted in widows’ black.

One fateful dawn
wrath returned,
just after the cockerel’s call
with a gale force 10 strength
away we were blown,
withering autumn leaves,
no shadows, trees or rocks
to hide under.

Cardboard castles like hounded kites flew,
smashed teeth down open slits wailed,
slain howls the night pierced,
a naked hole sucked me in,
the shroud of darkness that went on and on,
the putrefying stench of fear breathed in,
minds’ longings by barbed wire downed,
morrows handcuffed onto bumpers of troopers’ jeeps,
unmentionable Lucky Strikes prison yards burnt, arid,
bleached skulls down unknown ravines scattered, seeds
and garlands for tomorrow’s sorrows

when the cages’ keepers came
jackbooted in their bloodied tanks,
for the glory of the fatherland

with an American accent,

and I couldn’t even say “My God!”

Echoes of the Queen’s English
in my ears rang,
images of the infamous red haired cunt
and rape tainted underpasses
of Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange
in my eyes flashed

with a ragged accent, hungry eyes,
a suitcase bursting with awe,
from a precarious land I came
(perched between two mighty masses),
across eternal mountains I came
(the magnificent Aconcagua whispering farewell),
across a turbulent ocean I came
(cross winds strong in Buenos Aires),
across a life left behind I came
(a pilgrim from the New World),
incognito to this island I came,

“No sir I have nothing to declare
but the dead, the exiled, the forgotten.”

Visions of a dreamy lush place
caressed my mind,
girls in bright short short shorter dresses
would offer a flower,
and fuck like the sun on the banks of the Cam
on that long hot summer.

“England is green! England is green!”

On this mythical island
that had laid its banks
bare for my trembling wings
to rest, I glimpsed
a corner, just a corner, far,
of that garden, idyllical,
I believed England to be,
fairies and rabbits sailing
glowing yellow submarines
upon seas of roses
amongst sweet birdsong,
an interlude, brief,
from so much bitterness,
when her bee fingers,
luminous tracery,
entwined my hungry fingers,
when her ripe lips,
tasting of strawberries
and divine wine,
bit my cold lips,
when her shroud body
moulded to my starving senses,
when her wide open eyes
locked with my subterranean eyes,
when her inquisitive mind,
breaking its shell,
laid naked for my dislocated life,
on those long hot afternoons
punting on the slow river,
ducking cricket balls,
chasing the black moon.

The putrid stench of decay
of empire and stale urine
in seedy stairwells greeted me,

words bounced
from blank face to blank face,
unable to unlock names
that wouldn’t open,
unable to unlock faces
that slammed on my own.

Shrouded in darkness,
words returned
in foul-letter shape, I had

no kingdom nor castle
(nor a two up two down),
no land nor capital to lay,
only my longings, my sorrows,

(and at Poundworld I shop).

Two-finger accents’
scrawled four-letter words, ghastly,
scars of a realm grown
out of the faeces of emptiness,

dark underpasses
shadowed by preying gangs,

secret ten footers
haunted by ravished girls’ cries,

raped tombstones
repulsed by pissheads fucking Kaylee
and bloodying bloodied Pakis,

scrawled four-letter words, foul
secretions of an inland empire,

contours traced under anonymous darkness,
unknown faces, unknown hands
carving a deep chasm between them and us,

the moon’s dark side hiding ancient ghosts
that come alive, all howls and groans,
around the coven’s primeval bonfire,

stark landscape, sombre, boredom’s detritus,

On the geography of this discordant map,
between beer cans, crushed, wet condoms, discarded words,

I’m one of them, Niggers, Pakis
(although I’m a Wog).

The mean rhythms
of the streets’ English,
the mean rhythms
of the Queen’s English,

echoes of voices gone, whispers,
remains of glory, tombs, wilted,
chains blood dust ash...

echoes of voices to come, shards,
humble sparrows’ songs, masks,
voices trailing our wake
to haunt the unborn.

Mary Hannah,
infant daughter of William and Maria,

till the day break.

barriers, in places blackened, bloodied,
insidious, encroaching upon minds,

seeds of bitterness, infectious,
cancerous history spread within…

rmbl… rmbl… rmbl…

inland empire
marching all sharp blades baseball bats
teaching a lesson to them
child murdering Paki bastards

to enslave our women they wanted!
to make us speak Arabic they wanted!

to look for them to look for them
under our beds
under our skies
under our skins…

rmbl… rmbl… rmbl…

empire
marching on depleted uranium bombers them tanks
for the glory of gold global black stolen…

Slavery. Abyss’ fetters.

For Queen and country.

Quisiera, yo, dentro de tu piel, vivir, desnudo.
Quisiera, yo, sin piel alguna, vivir, nacido.

Nor love or hatred, blood we shed,
nor wrath or revenge, blood their children shed,
a macabre dance, banners and death,
there’s no end, there’s no beginning,
just stones, blind, dry, broken, barren lands,
dusty streams, time slit open, bled, buried,
sand and wind, sand and wind…

children in dazed
wonder, magnificent parcels, yellow, lively,
gifts from the beautiful sky,
unsuspecting dreams, tiny, hungry
for the bright stars shining beyond the horizon,
gliding into oblivion.

Look! Look! Hollow men swagger,
Their fine words to all corners flap,
bullets carrying death
upon encasings of dread
pierce masks of lies.

So much blood, so much blood,
when will we cease hitting
at so many empty sockets,
reflections of the beloved
having departed long ago?

The breeze of the river,

the gentle banks reverberating
under the song of the sun

murmuros amorosos…

do you remember?
do you?

The rattle of old bones is now deafening,
a flock has flown into my dreams,
all those corpses, unburied
under the dry soil,
a carousel of the dead,
their hollow laughter
a grotesque shadow on our wake,
vengeance of the unborn,
rocks thorns the yellow implacable
sweat an oasis gone gone
gone…

beasts are howling
howling…

grass dying on the rotten soil of the dead.

Fear loomed in the sky,
phallic beyond the blue curtain,
I dreamt of a sublime year, the world
and I
would be wise,

a year that came and went went,
fireworks kidnapped the stars,
cinders burnt into tar, a swamp.

America, have you seen
the glory of the coming of the Lord
on your desolate killing fields?

A mobile rings,
no one answers it,
where am I?
it’s black it’s black
round me,

the smell the smell,

a mobile rings,
I can’t answer it,
I can’t feel anything,
I can’t see anything,
I’m so cold I’m so cold…

O what a lovely lovely war!

in the ears of the world
she was growing into,
across London Bridge
she came she came,

butterfly wings, tender,
trembling,
many streets here there,
widows’ black hovering,
her voice, tiny,
hesitant,
a flock of voices, small,
yet strong,
a garden of faces, lush,
expectant,

from counties to plains,
from valleys to mountains,
from beyond the seas to the great city,
many tongues, one word,
a lone eagle landing, shy,
to say

“I’m no bird of prey”.

Hissing, angry,
serpent with many heads,
colours, a myriad, burning,
banners kissing the wind,
Big Ben chiming
the passing flow,
deluge of sorrow
down the Embankment,
the serene Thames,
silent witness,

the anger,
the slaughter of the innocents,

the anger,
the slaughter of our boys
for the glory of our leaders

with an American accent.

“England is green! England is green!”

straw men,
whispering together,

faces fading beyond close-ups,
voices meaningless,
marching together,
trampling ancient lands,
cradle and grave of our times,

crouching down gilded sties,
bewitched by your own covens,
deaf to the cry of the streets,
deaf to the grief and death
that follow your path,

straw men,
lured by sirens’ chants,
deluded by your own reflections
in believing that

your songs will be their songs,
their rocks will be your rocks,
their water will be your water,
their gold will be your gold,
their orchards are to sow your weeds,

straw men,
drunken with the power of your bombers,
drunken with the power of your bankers,

the sand you crush,
the rocks you lift,
the trees you cut,
the soil you spoil,
the voices you silence,

unleash rivers of fire
that will stay alight
past your barbed wire.

History’s long memory,
scarred into the vanquished flesh,

a ransacked land left bleeding,
days of harvest yet to blow…

Slowly, the froth
of my cappuccino has dissolved
into the clatter of the late afternoon ,
into the waitress’ smooth cooing.
I tremble, my eyes mimic
the faces, shouts, cries, that will haunt
the blue almonds of her pupils.

I? A forgotten epitaph.

Reflections, a rain puddle,
an echo, distant…

I crouched, still, a hare, fearful,
I waited

where are you, my love?

To sleep has gone
the old grammar school
across the square,
crumbling medieval bones sigh,
owls and ghosts at rest,

I look up at the sky,
now hallucinatory,
celestial fire strikes on my skull…