without chains i felt so naked and nervous.
having thoroughly failed at putting being a man first.
i was unconfirmed and unbaptised
when i sailed to the land where sabres tickle the sky.
reject yourself and bet your entire hand
on a metre square of reclaimed land.
build your own palace out of mud and scrap iron
and name it 'abraham', or something.
this is a perfect backdrop for the rapture
gold, silver, hanging all coming back in fashion.
say seeya to the gatekeepers and repeaters forever
as we learn how to plough side by side together.
tax free, zombie chic, a plughole pulling me inwards.
something to talk about before, during, but never afterwards.
it's such a lovely day for a crusade.
and my office suggestion box overflows with
requests for another great war of the cross.
i won't be reading any of these.
but my friends all say i have william the conquerors gut
and my mum says i have richard the lionheart's cheek-bones.
will the cardboard condos belch forth a new breed of hero?
and will these buildings unlisted see the birth of a new kind of history?
his final thoughts were about sand in his lager and sex on the beach.
his last words were about bingo, booze and sex on the beach.
i think i know why they wrap us in scaffolding.
drip-fed us on panic, plots 'n' scandals left us
as potent as a mummified king (in a potted history).
the memos that you left for me said 'don't forget your guillotine'.
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