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poetry by lou sid linesman - on life, love & politics
Monday, November 15, 2004
The Messengers
They come from the alien lands of reality,
Smuggling a truth full of potent profundity,
Language so strange we cannot comprehend
The grave meaning of signals those lands try to send.
They come tumbling out cheap, off the back of a juggernaut,
Prey to a mirage of freedom, then caught
In a mined-out desert where life has no rooting,
The vulture’s economic dominion of looting.
Sub-contracted by our greed grown native,
Newcomers labour in enterprise furtive
To lift the gold paving the City of London
For shares in a dream they are bound to abandon.
With benefit’s unnatural sweet treacle they’re tarred,
When most would settle simply for fair crust earned hard.
Beware, as your doorstep you proudly do cross!
Don’t trip over welfare-addicted home dross!
We want to contaminate, with our sad disease,
Their emotional health, that now threatens our ease.
We dare not stand out, in sick souls’ mass-designed agony,
Lepers ensconced, fat, in our own sovereign colony.
Our insecure, slack, sluggish, realm can’t dismiss
Migrant side-effects of social-care’s anodyne kiss;
From frustration’s command-and-control fantasy we call
On recruits’ full foreign service in this burgeoning raw brothel.
Divorced from necessity’s hot drive for invention,
Our sperm (not committed to regeneration)
Laze, vacantly letting the gene-pool lie still,
But we can’t afford shrinking - we need new strong will!
Narcotics they bring to our market of weakness,
Piled high on the subsidized stalls of our idleness.
Craving an unreal price, others we mug,
So dependant are we on the cheap power drug.
Crudely addicted to oil-laden tits
Of the small lands, the weak lands, the lands ruled by shits,
This unsated unhappy babe cannot grow up,
Unless weaned onto good solid nutritious sup.
Reservoirs ripe from remote subjugation
Fuel frantic guilt, sapping mature motivation,
And warm up our corpses complacent in herds,
Exiled to the wastes of a winter without words.
The time-taxing weeds of pervasive repression
Have strangled fresh buds before blooming creation;
The real scents of beauty stay stifled in night,
Since undergrowth snuffed out the vital sun’s light.
Dragged into the sink-hole’s great down-swirl, just gasping
For energy, desperately other lives grasping,
We whip up the whirlpool’s inexorable lure,
Drawn nearer to drowning - in our self-centred sewer.
So distant the memory of reason’s cool breeze,
With nuclear oppression we now vainly squeeze
On humanity’s atom perchance it produce
Some almighty sensation - not vigour’s dark thick juice.
Coercion can master but one heavy tune,
Well-practised at home on dull ears grown immune,
But performed on a tour to set foreigners free,
Will transpose to a sharper, more radical key.
Lashed to our hostage with tapes made from fear
Of reprisal prescribed by one creed both hold dear,
We’re sponsoring the instruments of global molestation,
The only sure refund - state-policed self-deprivation.
Old Democracy’s meaning is gagged and abducted,
Identity stolen, by evil corrupted;
Disguised can the demon’s renamed seed of hatred
Be o’er the world’s wide face ejaculated.
When our towers won’t stand tall enough views to afford
Of the lands which our powers have under the sword,
Then revenge will fly out with the despotic call
That those towers of blindness should not stand at all.
Thus castrated, the rapist, his face in the dirt,
Can hear very clearly, though grievously hurt,
His victims’ short bloodthirsty immature thrill,
As they gloat at his anguish with whooping too shrill.
To annihilate preachers who drink at the source
Of despair, is to turn evil’s taps on full-force.
So don’t shoot the messenger until he has said,
"You’ve got the gun aimed at your own fucking head!"
© Lou Sid Linesman, 2004. All Rights Reserved.
