You can blame Jonathan Meades for this one.
Time is a Flat Cercle
The old man’s back again: back in the barrister’s body,
called down from the astral for a final coffin-fuck
with the Iron Lady, a consummation deviantly fixed
like a Green Room buggered Boy Scout
and his jobless mother; back to celebrate
the Pigfucker’s election win, the stitching-up
of Scottish independence, the bigots given wing,
the increasing use of ‘English’ as identifier
on official forms, the begging of the West Lothian
Question; the express-checkout riot courts, go
directly to Pentonville for looting ten items or less,
the coppers let off for killing the newspaper man,
the Brazilian, for shagging their way through
the runway-delayers: the continuum, the irony
of his flesh-vessel’s name, shoving Kier’s hardy
into the barbed wire forest between the Baroness’ legs,
the box-office-baby baron of BBC light entertainment,
Big Daddy’s buddy, leaping barefoot from the ring
to the Vatican, to Broadmoor and japes with his pal Peter;
to the memory of Christmases passed out together in Chequers
while Denis pissed himself, mute, in the corner, parentheses
round the word ‘accomplished’ in Gladio memos, glasses chinked
to celebrate the death of Pasolini; to a future of faith-based
depravity, photo ops at Jesus House, superinjunctions preventing
the naming of Russian violinists, MI5 ramblers, to the Liverpool
coup, carried out with Nadhim’s ceracular blessing; to Victorian
values and C Howard Hinton’s idea of time, to the slow cancellation,
to his haunting of all of our memories, to the abolition
of any alternative,the dissolution of time, the breakdown
of a real present into a fictional history whose statues laws are written to defend
while women are beaten by policemen again and again,
to Rees-Mogg’s hypocritical Easter amen, to a one-party state
ruled by a blonde spaffer shacked up in Number Ten,
NOW-THEN, NOW-THEN, NOW-THEN!
