deepundergroundpoetry.com

Ode To Misery

 
I’m a stone in a world of flowers
 
the curious call of moors,
the old crow language  
of wings circling  
their ancient dead
 
peat bodies rotting beneath the weight
of seventies murder. The swaying  
New Romantics surrendering to the dark.
 
I am grey beaches in homeless overcoats,
banshees of Tudor shipwrecks
shaking bone rattles in violent storms.
 
I am poverty
and steel
and recklessness  
 
an IRA wound on a city wall; coal crowns
of Thatcherite rule haloing unforgiving
stomachs of shoeless youth
 
a Paul Weller funeral on a Sunday morning,
the black ushers crushing under centuries
of oppression, and gentry, and patronage.
 
I am the echo of shovels, the deafening snip
of wire cutters, unexploded bombs  
in civilian gardens.  
 
I am made of war
and guilt  
and rooftop suicide.  
 
I want to bathe in desperate blood,
hear terror howling through  
those gut-soaked streets—
 
it’s an English condition  
to allow grief to rip a soul
the hell apart.
Written by Northern_Soul
Published | Edited 7th Jun 2024
Author's Note
The U.K. has officially been named the second most miserable country in the world: https://tinyurl.com/48nnjhu9
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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