Sometimes Peace Looks Like War, You Cannot

Why Are We So Attached To The Severities Of The Past? Why Are We So Proud Of Having Endured Our Fathers And Our Mothers, The Fireless Days And The Meatless Days, The Cold Winters And The Sharp Tongues? It's Not As If We Had A Choice.

What [margaret Thatcher] Made A Play For Was The Acquisitive: Our Greedy Nature. She Set Aside Other Things Like An Identification With Community, Altruism. The Only Collective That She Understood Was: Rally Around And Slay The Enemy.

A Sea-green Sky: Lamps Blossoming White. This Is Marginal Land: Fields Of Strung Wire, Of Treadless Tyres In Ditches, Fridges Dead On Their Backs, And Starving Ponies Cropping The Mud. It Is A Landscape Running With Outcasts And Escapees, With Afghans, Turks And Kurds: With Scapegoats, Scarred With Bottle And Burn Marks, Limping From The Cities With Broken Ribs. The Life Forms Here Are Rejects, Or Anomalies: The Cats Tipped From Speeding Cars, And The Heathrow Sheep, Their Fleece Clotted With The Stench Of Aviation Fuel.

So Many Years Of Preparation, For What Was Called Adult Life: Was It For This?

By The Tits Of Holy Agnes