NOVEMBER 2010... A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND FROM LONDON...

Words elude me.

Perhaps that's why I chase their magic;

In their wake I feel I can escape the chisseled meat of clumsy matter
That dragged me through the gutter.

It was the failings of a frail frame that kept me bound and lashed to trauma and unrequited Heartbreak; yes:

I thought that suffering was England.

Every lie and sharp word cut my sight and minded me of sorrow.

Now what am I to do with all these words?

I saw death in every poppy and mine was bought for £1.50.

My mind's awash with fables and with histories and here old voices screamed for notice as they Shook their fists in anger; RED!
Like swaying poppies.

They rattled out their cartoon spectre tonsils and who am I to question that?

Yet in this space of words I can now breathe...

And with these sacrad incantations I transcend the plastic gristle and the grime that defines my Fading form and I become a shining arabesque...

I am not just earth and dust

Within me are entrenched the roots that bind the thoughts and words to rock and leaf and tree;
We are of this earth and blood red veins that course through disillusioned souls are sanctified By words and Poppies passed.

We carry this! We the Men of England;
And in our minds it is the spirit of nostalgia that pervades and now I think
"What is this thing we call our England?"
What fiction supersedes our missing tribe?

By what means does this define us?

Do these words in part confine us?

I for one shall take these words and with the air that shaped my lungs

I will exhale my love with pride.

Regardless of the broken lines I walk with dignity and in my heart - Despite the nihilistic fashion -I aspire to something better.

I take with me my battered English past - my blood red crumpled poppy - and I know that Where I go I have no fear:

No fear.

And in my heart I vow to lift my art with words that share a joy for life;

I maybe just a native to the pebbled grey but with no shame I reached beyond for better.

I am all that I've inherited.

All the flowers that my plastic poppy supersedes.

I am the poppy and the lily and the rose without choice;

All that I can do is salvage some enlightened seed from deep within this rancid pollen with the hope of breeding beauty;

Behind the Poppies we are all nothing more than lustful glints in our fallible fathers eyes.

This is all anyone ever truly inherits.

What am I?

I am country and council estates - behind gates - lived in fear and yes there's good reason:

Good reason indeed for the Men who will sell you and lie for your loyalty.

For your crumpled Poppy

And for this reason,

For this very reason my friends

I redefine MY England.