Going Back to the Long Man

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To walk upon the South Downs

a pilgrim searching for a dream

the carousel inside my head still rotating

listening to the Byrds

Turn! Turn! Turn!

Eight miles high

I am 13 again

all my problems are in front of me…

 

When loons were jeans

not a derogatory term

to describe pitiful souls

shouting in the street

at unseen phalanxes

marching without mercy inside their tortured minds…

 

Welcome home old man Jones

Once “boyo” of these valleys

Is this Vegas? Or my own personal Nam!

Peace badges – flowers

Puff the magic dragon

spewing death in lead showers…

 

Kyle parading toothless jello-bellied monsters

to be mocked and baited

in front of those

whose mouths are as un-potty trained

as the children they send to school wearing nappies!

 

My working class – I weep for you…

led by Instagram’s pied piper

to nirvana in reverse…

Once cannon fodder for wars

now we fight each other

eternal gladiators of doom

forever kept in poverty

making the best of Primark couture…

 

Hearts of lions – yet forever poor

stuck in a chimney like a Victorian sweep’s child

While Labour’s Johnny ragers

left lighting fires – underneath those

it should be saving – yet despises

Perceived as knuckle-dragging,

pitchfork torch-holding,

racist Islamophobes

 

The truth oh! so different

but that doesn’t fit your ideology…

My freedom found upon these Downs

awaiting nightfall – to spy Orion’s belt

sitting at the Wilmington Giant’s feet

dreaming of returning to Lewes

My childhood home…

 

© MC Bolton, May 2019

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