Ode To Misery

Iím 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 streetsó

itís an English condition
to allow grief to rip a soul
the fuck apart.
Written by Northern_Soul (-Missy-)
Author's Note
The U.K. has officially been named the second most miserable country in the world:
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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