The man who quotes Marx in the morning hangs coats in the evening.
The queen who breaks hearts in the castle is quoted by Pravda
As part of the parcel of class-war, incarnate when feudal conceiving
Mistakenly sneezed at the classy old ceiling which raises with laughter.
The man who leaves marks on the shoulders of those who lift boulders,
Who whips round for tips from the crowd as he cuts someone down,
Has a house of his own on the outskirts of town near the wall, as I’m told. There’s
A baby inside who would maybe have died had it not been for cash from the crown.
On the throne sits a name; in the name stands a word; by the word turns a world.
In the first, there were curses and verses; now hearses and purses and heavy black doors.
On the thirty-sixth floor you might find them at brunch: finely plucked, capes unfurled,
Plates of duck, gates of pearl, fates of luck. We have been here before,
We will see this again. We will breathe in the end, but we writhe in the mean-time.
The wreath on the gate keeps a tithe on the freeman. The parson didacts
What the Tsar manifests while the larcenous rest in a casket of quick-lime.
The bursar endorses injurious policies, sources a grindstone to sharpen the axe.
In the meadows and clearings those old, hard of hearing or stupid are pasteurised.
Vast, open spaces exist in the midst of relationships. Jesters play games
For the guests of the queen for the sake of a name or the fear of reprise.
In the air you can hear how the chimney-folk lived in less whimsical times.
In the eyes of the man who quotes Marx in the morning are terrible warnings
Of chemical poisoning, clinical suctions, subliminal messaging, culturing.
Cash in the cupboard collected in jar-form is vested in chloroform. Kings
Are the things of routine. Take a job as a eunuch, get contact, and torture him.
Teach him a lesson. Impeach him mid-session. Defeat him in battle. Destroy him.
Sow salt in his orchards. Dismember his gentlemen’s clubs. Kill his cubs.
Fill his tubs with red paint, dip his feet in and dye them. Completely deny him.
Pretend he was born in a stable. If able, employ him to tidy the bathrooms of pubs.
The queen who breaks hearts in the castle gets more than she asked for. Important
Dispatches are hatched in the greenhouse for snatching the genius from genuses.
Thatched and congenial mansions are taxed, but the fact is that most folks ignore them.
The Pope’s in the whorehouse being raucous and loud with a full host of penises,
Poking at virgins while staking his claim for eternity not spent in purgatory (hopefully).
Soap is provided in hotels where photos of Sultans consoling disgruntled Dictators
Hang over the four-poster beds which were formally quoted by notable critics as soulful
And pretty though lacking in bloodstains. The flood plains are mud-ruined: potatoes
And aubergines, safe on the plates of the queen and king, merely resemble a dream
To the trembling journeymen. Earning and keeping and earning and keeping
And spending and spending and spending and sleeping and draining a stream
While the fishes aren’t looking to put in a fountain and please pretty people with.
Deep in the pockets of those with deep pockets are those who seek office. Please
Profit and you’ve got a deal; if you’ve not, you’re not real. Shut the door as you go.
Oh, you’re here for the floor? Well, just sweep it in silence and try not to breathe.
If you thought there was hope in the future, then see my solicitor. He’ll let you know.