The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his “natural superiors”, and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous “cash payment”. It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervour, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom — Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.
The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honoured and looked up to with reverent awe. It has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage labourers.
From his own tree,
The negative version
Time moves round him,
A mythical figure
As he sways.
To the terrible
Centuries, the ghettos
And the camps,
Hushed into gas chambers.
A kind of hero,
Reminding Jesus that he,
Too, betrays something.
The whole turning away.
Who was Judas’ mother?
It’s not recorded
How they felt
Taking him down,
The shameful suicide
Who nobody helped,
Nobody caught in mid-fall.
What am I searching for? Am I looking for a book? Am I looking for the key? Am I searching for the salt? There’s always something isn’t there? A teaspoon. An address. The divine. Maybe. Or the sex thing. Walking along the seafront. The clickidy-clackedy machinery of desire.
But that’s a digression, isn’t it?
Anyone fancy winding up an orange?
Where’s the key gone?
Thinking about the murder of Julius
As his name-month swelters
And the Unitarian Doric of New Road
Houses a new busker
The formal portico is like a promise
Of something even better
Rational organisation of things
Simplicity of a sun-shaped god
The flute-player misses a note
Sparrows chip the paving
– No blood on these stones –
The next high improvisation he attempts
Disappears into the blue and out of history.
Columns indent like inert components
Of some unwieldy gear
Which has run down now and lies
Disassembled in the workshop –
Cog-wheels and grease, the smell of solder.
my queer noirish drunk novel now available on iBooks, as well as Kindle…