State of the Nation Bulletin

Burning gold has put holes in our brains, no talking now: the landscape is
            fixed & that wind would just blow over. Instead,
survive where the map show no mythical creatures but reads here be
            things standing around in shoes. They cannot conjure
characters, only unthinkable liquids slopped into blow-moulded
            copies of bodies; which imaginary people
are colour-coded to simplify reference, the whole abysmal
            metaphor exhibited as fact. Don’t tell me
a wizard did it, magic is distraction & poverty is
            theft & I have nothing in my pockets.

Who belongs to this information? One of the scruffs, disorderly
            inventor of invisible systems, I persist
in a box to one side, but a box; & call that living. Visitors
            praise the cookery, politely ignore the grot,
forge their unsteady way homeward on late-night trains; & somewhere close,
            entities on the organisational chart
mutter together. Step over the heaps of paper in the hall and
            come & get drunk, my optimist friend, insisting
the glass is half-empty but at least there’s a glass. The problem is
            you’re wrong, this government circular says
don’t even think about it, shut up & watch while all that is solid
            melts into air, singing did those feet & so on.

We never ventured near their private conversation, this is our
            fault, we were engrossed in television, faces
dissolved by the glow. Wholly sublimed, we left it to our chosen
            delegates on earth, in masterly tailoring,
who knew about the mutual life but saucer-eyed & sniffing
            shrugged off that youthful nonsense for a higher
power: some enormous actuary crouched on a cloud accounting
            us the possessions. It continues the noble
habit of Athenian democracy exclusively upheld
            by slaveowners, expensively-educated
ignorance in empty suits inhabiting our capital, gaze
            trained towards godhead: look at the money, it is
more important than people. No I don’t like the place, but still remain
            an Englishman from split ends to athlete’s foot.

This may be just so much rancour. The last argument is entered
            by more ordinary legislators, & being
powerless & afraid, my self-constructions are nothing but
            sentiment, & a pose. I can only picture
a subject like the just city, while plausible destroyers
            finish the project for real: beware of this
dun & unpleasant enclosure, with sign by the gate saying get
            lost. There is no one who wants to look after you.

(6/3/15-22/4/15)