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| Richard Russell |  |
threebe mindful of dynamics. you know one alastair campbell is louder than a thousand single mothers as they try to love solo on sixty-five a week. one blind fascist speaks crunching deaf with a fake left hook as he reads from the book called how to be home secretary. homeless misery affects black-necked thousands who rouse their best sins to claw through another winter. spin doctor heal thyself. heal thy mouth as you sell me south when my old age comes round. I found my sound so many years ago I feel like another planet laughs back at me from my tv. who feels like I feel. who reels at the wounds cutting my country up like so much stock-market expediency to leave me broke like all the folks before me. nevermind this, where's the beat? blair glares with spare eyes as he tells scare stories in disguise to despicable underlings still wondering with bluff blunder when the poor go under. never mind this, where's the beat, I repeat. the sound of the streets should never ring with the names of who owns them, that's unblue and unbritish. the dish of the day is humble pie for the nazi spy in pub's corner. watch what you say about mountbatten windsor and the sins of the empire because lizzie's got a vicious streak and the beak's pledged allegiance to the regent. keep your bent pretensions to some poems about flowers and blue skies not economic powers and blue-bloods. pretty rose buds snowdrops falling orson welles another calling movies lying through their teeth quite unholy to eat roast beef as ratty and moley get done for not actively seeking work. the berk with his row-boat cost them sausages for supper and the gas cut off. sack the toff. blair buggered off to cliff richard's pad in barbados at some mighty loss to jack tax-payer. while there he rubs noses with celebrity turds while cheryl supposes she's clever to have picked such clement weather. words fail the stale-smelling squaddies still doing their bidding in basra. ridding ourselves of these islington egomaniacs is a singular duty but kiss tutti fruity just never mind that and get with the beat. well here's the beat: use your feet. rule number three for beat poets who only know it soft and jazz-like: POETRY MUST RELATE. STATE CLEARLY YOUR PURPOSE. TREAT US TO THE SUMMIT OF YOUR RAGE, THE SMOKING PAGE OF TREACHEROUS POKING rivulets of sweat you can't forget about your life. strive for relevence to your lover or your brother. the beat is your truth and no-one other. the beat is not some smothered trumpet solo belonging to your grandmother but a living, sweating, copulating life-form born of ferment politic and racist. the basis of bird's fate is the wait for civilised treatment of blacks and smack-heads both in those so uneven states. kerouac went back to nomadic fag-packet travel to unravel a life which couldn't go forward in big city strife in a world which won't let you feed till you have enough greed to make your mother bleed for two dollars. the money follows the fat man. poetry is part of the plan to make things better than this. relieve the pain of the far too sane and you heave a breath of true meaning. wear your name on your sleeve as you grieve for the lot of those who bore your name before you. thieve only from chain-stores and shakespeare and you needn't fear your reaper or his deceiving keeper. keep verses real to nurse and heal and feel achievement's glow win slow. play something diz would know and close your eyes and blow a semibreve before nightfall. be bop. believe. |