The furious tide of memory

What strange tapestries are woven amid this barren time,
and the impossible thought achieved so soon?
I am made a thing not fitted for this mechanical zoo.

I think, I feel, I hope.

The city is alive with crawling things
that hoot at each other
and growl at strangers,
I am bewildered by its intensity.
Subterranean booms
and noises that imitate
a gorilla with bowel problems
vex my ears.

Who is running the show tonight?
Generous ‘Ladies’ look for millionaires,
while benevolent psychopaths
work hand shadow puppets
on the Cathedral walls.

The children cannot sleep now;
their angels are at play with sin.
Hell on earth sold at a reduced price
through every commercial outlet.

I dare not walk the streets of my hometown,
streets that once wore the cloche of generosity
in a time of sparkling change;
I am not wanted there,
where the ghetto blaster marches
with the ancient Serpent,
and the new Monarchy
sends the thought police out
to search for me.

I am evangelised to hate
in this flea circus that calls out
to a deepening moan inside me.
The fingers of murders stroke my hair
and then suddenly, the furious tide of memory
takes me back to an England,
where, hearts are at peace.