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Poetry Magnum Opus

The Wreathed Horn


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Summon the bells of the morning!

Let them break out, clanging,

across the wetlands and the sullen fields

so that every sentient soul can hear them,

every undeaf spark of life;

let our people decide, unruly in their beds,

whether to answer the call

or read the Sun and Daily Telegraph.

 

The rain doesn't help,

spitting down on missing absent hedgerows

where useful insects used to live

doing their little bit for England: now the cold rain

falls on the green denuded fields,

with a faint rising whiff of chemicals.

 

Cars whizz by on the M4, the M25,

carrying computer salesmen, fat children,

Social Services ladies in tweed skirts,

and occasionally Prince Charles on his busy way

to prevent some form of architecture.

Slow myopic moles, hasty but unlucky hares,

leave their shattered trusting carcases

on the rainslick roads: hardly any squashed cats,

since these you find only in towns. Now and then,

with a bit more fuss, there are human children.

 

Such desirable little houses, here and there,

surrounded by acacias, garden gnomes, and mortgages,

as Mr. Next-Door polishes his Bentley in the drive

with a satisfied smirk at your 4-year-old Ford.

Meals have become varied and adventurous

thanks to Sainsburys, Tesco, and the microwave,

and no pigeons come to roost in the roof

as your fathers and grandfathers slowly die away

in the old terraced houses, sent off with

surprising pomp and ceremony, dead-ending

at the cream-white crematorium. These oldies

have a surprising collection of wartime medals.

 

Different world. A moment to shake your head

before the bloody mobile rings again. Shit.

Here we go back to the real world, a society

we have created and made our own. I can

peel off a roll of fifties, no problem, keep the change,

but you know none of this really means a thing,

you just know you're not really in the game

until you get that call for Breakfast TV.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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  • 2 weeks later...
Different world. A moment to shake your head

before the bloody mobile rings again.

 

 

Present poem, fast, urban.

 

I like it

 

Alek

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth - Jean Cocteau

History of Macedonia

 

 

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Agree with the others, Dedalus. This look at suburbia and its culture of keeping up with the Joneses takes it to the next level: it causes one to ponder whether production itself is overrated.

 

Tony

Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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