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

Night Daleks

I felt the anger

Saw hatred in your eyes

Slowly walking towards us –

like a couple of Western gunslingers…

Watching my movements

Waiting for a careless word

to justify your extreme violence

Yet there was only silence

As we passed each other like ghosts

taking our tension to another dimension

knowing I am everything you despise

my mixed race daughter by my side

the ultimate racial traitor

must be exterminated!

 

Agents of the right

daleks of the night

What was that all about Dad?

Are those men truly bad?

these times really sad?

Pulling her close – tight – tight – tighter

would have made a stand

like an old prize fighter

but I am no Tyson Fury,

Judge, or their jury!

Understood the stares – glares – unfounded fears

which will end with us all drowning

under a waterfall of tears…………

 

movie-daleks
Image from here

© M.C. Bolton, April 2019

 

Monochrome Dystopia

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From Georges Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon (Le Voyage dans la lune) 1902

 

Words run through my head

like a freight train

everything looks like a Fritz Lang film

or Georges Méliès’ Le Voyage Dans la Lume

 

It’s all in black and white

the moon has a rocket in its eye…

smoke and rushing…

Caps, ties, shirts with removable collars

shoe shine boys – paper sellers

non-playable characters

Forever trapped in a Peaky Blinders video game…

 

Yet I cannot form a sentence

grasp an idea – formulate a first line

to hang my literary clothing upon to dry…

Dead relatives flirt with modern day girlfriends!

over soup and tea…

I’m shocked by their candour

Felix the Cat purrs

as it entangles its legs

inside my mind

Its claws scratching my skull

 

Oh! Just to grasp the tangible-secure

to tie this drifting ship

floating on a lake

without water or shore

Feeling so lost – but so amazed

astonished within my own imagination

without need for chemicals or alcohol…

Petrol to the poetic cause

Many destroyed who chose this path

of angst and anguish!

 

Forever falling deeper into despair

that washes up yesterday’s hopes – dreams

like the ebbing tide of Father Thames

exposing without pity the weakness

of those that don’t fit into any jig-saw

Completing a picture of damnation

 

Like an eel I slither back into the river

lost in its depths with old bikes

destined never to be ridden again!

drifting further out to sea

knowing not purpose or destiny

Forever grateful I drowned not in the ocean of bland

 

© Mark Bolton

Ode to Hereward

Tonight the chariots

are running through my head

destroying without mercy…

 

Truly my crime is great,

for in dreams and visions

I have spied the promised land…

 

Scales dropping from internal eyes

like dead men’s pennies

snatched by the Styx ferryman…

Freedom gained through truth

Jericho walls of falsehood, delusion, illusion

crashing down

 

Seeking refuge in the sea of reeds

for a year and a day

my home with birds…

Pursuers now vanishing

like mist over the Fen

melted by the morning sun

 

The great Wake rising

his fire burning within my soul

refining – purifying

cauterizing greed’s gangrene

of the noble lie

where introspection is reduced

to echo-chamber confirmations

inside the minds of those that rule

 

Babylon’s cruelty thriving

in the darkest hearts of men

devoid of conscience, love or pity…

 

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Picture from twitter.com/wakehereward

 

M.C. Bolton, February 2019

The Truth of the Urban Dandy

My name is Truth

I have stood since time’s beginning

Outside the hearts of man

Waiting for the invitation

a few will let me in

 

I am searched for by the flawed, the weak, written about by the poor

For only in humility

Can I enter through your door

 

Yet I can free you from delusions, false hope and empty dreams

From the world’s chicanery

All its crazy schemes

 

I am the small voice in the wilderness

A whisper in the breeze

be still, quiet, listen

For with me comes liberty…

 

© Mark Bolton

 

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France 2018, photo by Tom

Genesis January 2019

To truly capture the moment

realising time owns me

my master – enemy – friend

a paradoxical illusion

framework of dreams

mankind’s pathway to hope…

 

Reaching inwards

pulling apart ribs

to offer my heart

sacrifice to the universe

which deluded men pay no mind…

 

Building walls around their souls

constructing edifices to self

guided by pride, by fear

knowing not their fortresses are prisons,

prisms in reverse

 

Religion offering solace, order, comfort

ritualistic acts of piety

to a God who rends his cloak daily

at the futility of those

that are trying to earn salvation

through abstinence and deeds

 

Enlightenment obtained by grace

which brings change – shows mercy 

beyond comprehension dimension

even beyond time

yet in this moment

never beyond God’s transcendental love…

 

 

door to antiquity

Poetry by ©M.C. Bolton, January 2019

 

Art: Door to Antiquity by Ikram Awaale (instagram: ikram_awaale6)

 

 

Legion of the Damned

Forbidden to vocalise

what I see

state-controlled reality

usurping individual freedom

 

Plastic offended, weak minded

rising up in the pecking order

of those that wish to destroy civilisation

bully boys once bullied

using the state to bludgeon…

 

Shout loud – be heard

control the word

step out of line

phobe-isms thrown like hand grenades

into pronoun verbose bunkers of scholars

 

Your verisimilitude world

will crumble like stale cake

in the hands of a beggar

who sits on a heap of dung

manufactured by beetle-like scurriers

safe only in their own detritus

 

No humour or irony allowed

in your cowardly new world

where weak insipid men rule

legions of the damned

like Goths at the gates of Rome

 

Be aware of true freedom’s voice

slowly arising from the dust

destroying all in its path

as the worm of truth

released by God

devours all that is false

in both doctrine and policy

leaving naked those

that built upon sand

 

Arms raised, I leap into the sun

adding fuel to a fire

that will burn both bright and hot

forever more…

like an eagle i soar

 

Poetry by M.C. Bolton 2019

Art: Like an Eagle I Soar by Ikram Awaale (instagram.com/ikram_awaale6)