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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 14:47:30 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 171819
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => England.
[time] => 2012-04-09 04:48:29
[hometext] => England is no longer the green and pleasant land it once was.
[bodytext] => In this England twenty twelve. We shuffle in hypnotic hachures. Spiraling eternally in winding, woven wistful debt. We hurt from blinkered splintered fractures, never to forget to drink to forget. In this England twenty twelve. We lie in search of heliacal rising heaven. Pastures green we freely shelve, for thalamic thirst twenty four seven. In this England twenty twelve. We stand in quiet patient queues, and don't ask awkward questions. We live our lives as if from autocues, upon cyclopian cameras. Politeness rarely mentions. In this England twenty twelve. We lie awake throughout the fear induced tabloid night. Free to wonder with strange idea, if policeman, bailiff, rapist, social worker neighbour, really might? In this England twenty twelve. We have given away almost all our power. Sold out consanguineous counselled truth, for tavistock proof, handled by the hour. In this England twenty twelve. We are bruised. We have been battered. In this England twenty twelve. Expressing simple love from our indomitable hearts, will prove to be, all that ever really mattered. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 209 [topic] => 41 [informant] => Raggie [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => political )
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