110/2023

His parents always read
The Express,
Even had it shipped
To Germany in those
Early days of ex-pat
Torture, broken
German, the flimsy
Pages of home.

Or so it seemed.

Until he read the
Lies, the adoration
Of the Right, the
Empire war mongering
Not even twenty
Years after the war
His father was captured
In, the cap with the
Double S in the wardrobe
Still.

It took too long to
Escape those parental
Chains, that constant
Torture of form
Over substance
And joy.

14.08

Britain is on on
Express train
To annihalation.

No station stops
Between here
And hell.

The quiet fields
Lie. The noise of
Failure everywhere.

Rushing by,
The pylons
Of profit.

Empiricism has
Given way to
Empire nostalgia.

The gates of fire
Loom. The driver
Laughs.

His pockets are full.

14.15

I’m now on the train from London back to Norwich, inputting this on my phone (suh messing with wordpress inserting phantom blank lines). An interesting day with a lot of vindication grown in, which is a good thing, because I passionately believe in my day job (as well as in my writing). No room for complacency, though, not in either arena.

I’ll be glad to get out of this suit. I ripped my tie off as soon as I got on the train. I will hunt out my shorts when I get home and give myself a calm half hour before I crawl into bed.