deepundergroundpoetry.com
Bank
Bank
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Gold leafed Eros looks down from his precipice – glistening in scorching heat of a summer afternoon – looking down on the proles and grey flannel suits – wonders why he is atop a Money Control Centre – re-aims his arrow to the sky and never fires it.
Granite Urns full of nothing but themselves guard the fuck off Victorian walls which have only two entrances, a front and rear – the rear is hidden on a back road next to a chapel, out of sight, surrounded by builders in bright neon yellow protective gear with their helmets showing, talking on walkie-talkies, ogling (and under the thumb of) The Sun - (because this back-street-life is their Office.)
The front entrance is under 6 naked figures of which 4 are men and 2 are women with exposed shapely breasts and nethers concealed by flowing locks and gowns. The outer males look to the inner men hiding latent desire – a game played continually - the players too petrified to move, lest the walls collapse if their pleasure is met.
Pale badly shaped graying and deformed shirted and bloused victims frequent the front and singularly tall mouth entrance which opens duly at 9 and shuts promptly at 5-30 –vomiting out these drained-greys at 12 to eat pitiful meal deal lunch sandwiches on Royal concrete steps adjacent – the most pale suited specimens are more frequent visitors to these steps and self-poison via tobacco to decrease the biologic pain enflamed inside Bank.
Ex-Burkhas patrol the walls passing pillars of stark stone with neon yellow protective flannel worker shirts over grey suits over brown skin – chat to each other – patrol some more and circle the building pointlessly chatting on walkie-talkies.
Tourists wonder around unable to find the Bank that is right in front of them. Here there are no markings - just fuck off Victorian walls. It is so constructed so one has to lean back in a subservient position to partake even the slightest glimpse of the architecture beyond the guardian Granite Urns – to see the pillars and large chandelier filled rooms and offices one has to adopt this degrading position as no other position is allowed – if you cannot enter you are its servant - always looking up at your Master… begging.
Toffs bow tied strident and abound in confusion unable to find their champagne function destination are circling the Bank in pride pride pride - searching a map with only a handful of streets marked upon it. They resort to asking the Happy Fascist Dust-Bin Man directions and find out from him that they are already standing outside their champagne fuelled gathering - but their bow-ties have become un-uniformed and are denied due entry - leaving them to circle the streets in emptiness wondering what went wrong.
The Happy Fascist Dust-Bin Man trundles on with his wheelie bins, brushes and Council provided What-Nots, moving on to his next target. His profession may be clearing the shit off the streets but his occupation is annoyance. By every bin he stops and talks to the nearest prey with his well practiced routines of toothless joyful bigotry, racism, misogyny and well-read historical ignorance. He may know the facts but believe me he does not know the whole story. His new prey stands on the street opposite the Bank front entrance selling newspapers owned by a Chelsea-Russian. With no upper front teeth the Happy Fascist Dust-Bin Man opens mouth and spurts out solid superiority-inferiority complexes and sounds of stubborn stupidity spurting spontaneously into the ears of his latest prey like verbal spit.
The victim nods and smiles making the odd comment but smiling still with the fake smile of Prime Ministers and lets the Happy Fascist Dust-Bin Man hold the conversation. Any comment the victim makes is used as evidence against him by the prey – and he will make any kind of Tabloid sponsored sensationalist statement to provoke a knee-jerk response. The diarrhea verbiage so flows out from the shaved head, crinkled skin, Socialist hating Dust-Bin Man’s gummy mouth, at every response earned… as if he were emptying a sack of plastic trash into the victim’s brain via the ear-drum. The victim succumbs into silence – realizing anything but avoidance of eye-contact staring down the street, and noise-less un-reaction will rid him of this grotesque mind and figure. Having punched a few hits of annoyance into a prey the Happy Fascist Dust-Bin Man trundles off leaving a sentence unfinished, as is his usual routine, to ensure he gets the final word in. He empties the bin of plastic packaging, discarded free-newspapers and tissue papers with his man-gloves - sweeps up butts and ends discarded by the most pale and pushes his carriage of crap on down the streets past Wellington, to the next bin, and his next hit.
Business Preacher passes Happy Fascist Dust-Bin Man and assumes the posture by the hallowed steps of the Royal Exchange – before starting he is passed by a couple of German tourists that have just exchanged Prince Andrew and Princess Beatrice for a Prince Phillip (boy, are they in for a ride…) – Business Preachers erects his voice to the sky and starts to bellow the hallowed words of God whilst assuming the posture of superiority and judgementalism – his words ring painful in the ears sitting on the Exchange steps eating meal deal plastic sandwich lunches – yet his voice echoes on and on – droning the predictable text parrot fashion – in his opinion saving your soul with his words – in the listener’s opinion (well the non-converted silent majority’s opinion) a pain in the ass spoiling your lunch – Business Preacher, in flannel suit, seems to enjoy the non-response of those around him to his hallowed words – enjoys that the heathens hear his words of his God and yet refuse to come into his light and assume the same posture – enjoys it because it makes Business Preacher feel like an Apostle on Pentecost – enjoys it because he’s on his superiority tick – his superiority hit – knowing that from his beliefs he will live eternally happy in the eternity of his heaven – enjoys that he is telling all round him of this angelic after-life existence yet they persist on their demon paths regardless of the knowledge he is imparting to them. Seller of newspapers owned by a Chelsea-Russian is in earshot of the Business Preachers’ sermon tirade and listens through lack of choice – hears the same old clichés and phrases blared out, heard it all before in the church-schools of his youth. Business Preacher comes to an end - has run out of ready-made phrases and adrenalin – suddenly gets self-aware, collects his briefcase and tondles off back to his Business job – safe in the knowledge that he is morally above those that surround him – safe in the knowledge that the Good Lord will provide his next six figure bonus. Converted Christian Courier bikes up to Business Preacher as he turns the corner to console congratulate and encourage him – they exchange “Peace Be with Yous” and depart - Business Preacher in a post-performance giddy daze.
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[/font]Gold leafed Eros looks down from his precipice – sees a middle aged bespectacled man holding his young son’s hand as he guides him round the walls of the Money Control Centre – the sparkle of Eros’ body attracts the boy’s eye and so points up at Eros, who smiles back at him. Daddy notices son’s point of attention and fills the ears of the youth brain with the knowledge of who Eros is. But even Daddy can’t answer the riddle of why Eros is atop Bank. [/font]
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Published 16th Dec 2009
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