Madly Burns The Evening Sun

Madly Burns The Evening Sun long poem

Photo by Always Shooting

Fahrenheit mid twenties
on dole skint Saturdays
bordered in black and white
diamond linoleum.
Lost in days.

I acridly observe the
English countryside
on a coffee table
pamphlet. My
minds unbridled
in those munching
country lanes.

But sometimes it’s
Lost, lost like old people
who gawp insensate
coiled in the turmoil
of their punctured past.
Scoured of desire. And
wracked in the recknynge
of their tossed summers.

I wandered like a
lonely betting slip.
Cold and alone in
the loverless sunshine
that fixed its spots
around me like coins of light.
Silence invaded the suburbs
and scarcely discernible saints
wandered beatific through
irreligious streets.
Spliced and spat from the core
of some fungible fruit.

Violence and narcotics and post football pugnacity
all they is a bank balance and love bites in a taxi.

But from the high windows
only the hospital sanitizes
a portion of the view
a lucid tale of an old egalitarian ideal
when man used to command care.
The rest is the mere wires, veins and tarmac,
of spaghetti land.
In the distance tall glass and sheets
of metal and the corporate graffiti of slogans.
Now that lyres and bards live on in microchips.

Below lies the shanty of
Blitzkrieg cardboard land
our cratered urban quagmire
that ripples and pulses in the
glassy up drought of
punishing green house heat.
The tar sweats and the
sick river rolls on with
a petroleum veneer.

Munch paints our evening canvass
his July mind beats and fashions
a tubercular sky with the
scores and strokes of
wire brushes lacquered in acid.

Munch paints our evening sky.
with eyes hot wild and malignant.
Torrid visions of
a thirsty world
dripping in paint
in all tones of love and pain
in the blurred traffic
of colours and crisis

Violence and narcotics and post football pugnacity
all we need is a bank balance and love bites in a taxi.

The slow odious descent
for a climax we’ll regret
ring by subterranean ring
we slip, through the
carnal labyrinth.
To drugs in cubicles
to horrors and desires
to phantoms of lust and
ultimate visions of ****
toast a generation tongued
to the last gyzyms of its consciousness
and the irises of youth are wreathed
in frenzies of blossom and
patriotic crowds of jostling flowers
with faces of love, evil and beauty.

Though we are the maimed fledglings
of unremedied sorrows that fester in silence
of love that split and drizzled in violent deserts.
Men are units pressed and bullied into shape
generation X, Evil and atomized, anxious.
A calculated race that orbits insensate
though shifts of routine.
The mass grapple for distinction
the elite consolidate their position
the wizened old prune of commerce
licks at the seeds still stuck in her teeth.
And all the heroes go insane.
In a doller-slut economy.

Cogito ergo sum in quadrophenia
the suns blood red colours bruised
into yon entrails of thy labouring cloud
purple and gold contusions and
shreds of ribbon trace the zenith
where aeroplanes chalk the sky.

Its not puerile premature pathos
over a pash that puffed and burst
into flakes of impalpable ash.

I stand windswept where the waves
crash into the chalk cliffs
smeared tip of white
at the end of the lands nose
the traveling waves welter
the forgetful surf creams on those edges
my tears taste vicious at that
briny edge, at that
vast edge drear.

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