1. |
Ken's Critical Theory
00:28
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Hello. Tonight's edition of Ken's Critical Theory with postmodern detective inspector Ken Hill investigates the m-murder of Squire Robin Peacock and comes to you from the m-murder lounge of the late Squire's Cock Hall estate in Little England in the Styx. It's looking like Cain and Abel the first M-murder Case all over again. Do we know, will we ever know, Who Killed Cock Robin? Ken...!
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2. |
Lockdown
03:37
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Don’t go to work
Don’t go to school
Stay in your homes
Keep the 2 metre rule.
From the council estates
To the posh ones with parks
From high fashion high finance
To its slave kids in the dark
From the poles to the equator
Supermoon into eclipse
From the fjords to the deserts
Temperate zones to the tropics…
Can’t breathe…
Come and heal us with your caring
Then go back where you came
You’re not from round here
We don’t know your name.
From the centre of the cosmos
To Little England in the Styx
From the heart of Little England
To each human breath’s limits.
The world has come
To Little England in the Styx
Little England is the world
We’re all together in this
Except we have no test kits
We shut down too late
We didn’t quarantine
We didn’t track and trace.
We didn’t take the test
Now we’re top fo Death’s calss,
Lord Hee Haw dressed as Churchill
We are such a silly ass.
Blitzing Brits for Blighty
As the Beast in the East
Spits his cold War into Salisbury
The we go off piste.
Covid’s knee in the throat
Of your healer and your bro;
In this world war for survival
Every ally is your is foe.
Can’t breathe…
Except we have no test kits
We shut down too late
We didn’t quarantine
We didn’t track and trace.
We didn’t take the test
Now we’re top of Death’s class
Lord Hee Haw dressed as Churchill
We are such a silly ass.
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3. |
The End of the Line
04:25
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Squire Peacock lounges over the white marble floor,
No rope round his neck; no knife in his back,
No candlestick pestling his little grey cells,
Just the world in a virus, a corona attack.
All the wanna-nobs flocked to 'Cock Hall last night
Snob-noshing beneath feudal chandeliers,
Watching Cavalier points under courtesies,
Filles fiancéd, fillies fielded, fences, finance, feudings, fears.
Now, as still as his statues, their host lies dead,
His white palace frozen and under a cloud
His Olympian, cut-diamond, snow queen is caught
Like Clytemnestra clutching a red-handed shroud.
DI Ken Hill, DS Len Wade, in Conservatory with masks,
Bag up the hanky, "If you’re on there, we’ll find ya!”
"But one dropped it in Argos – no, Iceland - with one’s lover.” “He
Was picked up last night, with your diamonds, in China!"
Lady Peacock protests, to Chief Constable Melton,
"Why would I murder the Last of the Peacocks?
He's the father of half of my children," (she snorts) “my fallen
Cock Robin; my intensive care bed; my surgical stocks."
Mrs Wight, the Housekeeper, pure as driven snow
Blockading the Mistress from 'these lowlifes', steps up:
"Ditch the Peacock au vin, box the Snobside of Brexit
And keep all these doors to the Outside shut."
Old Iceni crime scenes and Welsh caravans
hurtling East on Celtic routes to Little England in the Styx
through a transport of isolated bacterial cultures going West;
not to mention (Ghost Village Ghost Office Post-Modern) Post-man Pat’s bright red van (its owner arrested
by a masked Private Plod for ‘letterboxing’ 658 properties)
and 2 metres up Snow White’s elephant SUV rear
stockpiled with shopping while the NHS serves on empty;
Block the Boudicca Trail up the B666. "This
Ain't the road to ‘Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwll llantysiliogogogoch’ (our lost home in Cockley Cley)
This is the road to Dis."
The Brown Lady appears with a headless Dr Blak,
Are you seeing ghosts, milady, or old sins coming back?
Snow White takes them out in a panic attack:
"Not part of the cult-cha; not part of the pack!"
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4. |
The Lead Piping
00:07
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5. |
The Squire's Case
07:19
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When Dr Blak was murdered, I knew I’d be next,
“There IS a society.” Blak wrote it. I ran it. My Eden
Was his word plot until Eve let Mustard in. Mustard’s
Speechless-rage counter-plotters killed Blak to kill our vision;
Killed me for its kenning Hall: its Saxon foundation;
Its Civil War change of hands; its New Age victory diggers
For Boudicca’s grave Gone West, her wild la mére chariot reined
Like a drop into timeless Ocean, clocked in Roman figures;
Its Camelot-Spooked Room 101 A, full of death kites from China;
Its Dorothy Walpole Townshend Whig Brown Lady’s
Dis-Embody of a sunset on a huge pink map
Dis-Honouring its debts in the East and West Indies;
Its levelling reputation as the seat of a Robin Hood
Gone Green on growth, employment, health, social justice
And of a Walpole, lending (inter)national scale
To Mustard’s private-I-sations; his Empire-Britain-in-the-Styxes;
Its Canon Bullfinch Rook-Lark Church of Little England
Which, in homage to its Founder, I gave back to the Public,
The disease is the cure if it reconnects the planet-”
“Stop complicating, Squire; the virus- whodunnit?”
‘Super’ Market-Law of Bourgeois Realist Plod slams my casket and cracks the case
CRACK! deaf to my whisperings from beyond the grave,
Blind to Ken Hill’s depths of buried Celtic gold
And looking in all the wrong places for a motive.
Arthurian Ladywell flood-rocks out in the Styx
and crossroad crews of freezing immigrant field-slaves
warming the grockles of Mustard’s Holiday Hearths
feeding credit crunch into inflated bankers
and reminding Kentucky-fried CIA Agents Frank and Mark Adams
of ‘a blake Moor born in Barbary’
singing ‘Them Ol’ Cotton Fields Back Home’;
behind Mrs Wight, private mask off and blowing away the cobwebs
(20 virus-people-carrier miles from lockdown)
along Mustard’s Golden Guinea Sands into the public’s face
as the Crown Prince and his Heritage Lieutenants
lock the Cock Hall crime scene down ‘before it goes viral’
and after the pale horse has bolted
past a testing kit convoy that isn’t there
and a video surveillance police unit chasing
a missed 666 apocalypse call around the bend
Block the Boudicca trail up the B666.
This ain’t the road to the Holy Grail.
This is the road to Dis.
The Brown Lady appears with a headless Dr Blak,
"You built this pile on African slaves, give it back."
Snow White takes them out in panic attack.
Not part of the culture, not part of the pack.
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6. |
A Crime of Passion
06:26
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"Boss, we need this result, all the Lounge Billiard Ballrooms;
All the hounds on The Beeston Daily Mail;
All the Skulthorpes and Death-Creakes of self-isolation
Will cue our coronas to Cock, if we fail.”
"Have a night off in Lynn with the Neighbourhood Watch,
Catch the best show in town on their CCTV
Or a link to the Linnets. Relax. The CC's brought in two of his own,
Old Agatha Christ-Eyes from AC/OCD..."
"Enchantez, enfin!" bows ol' Ercule to Jane.
She drops a purled stitch and smooths her church lace,
Jumpy as a polter in Guist,"Oh indeed!" going pink,
"Cock Hall, like Hell Hall, is a very lonely place."
"And a Chaos of flowerbeds, imbecile that I am,
My ideas as deranged as PC Plot’s rouge-stained collar."
"There’s a fire in my brain and an ache in my heart,”
Coughs Jane, "of what does that remind me, I wonder?"
His grey cells detain her woodland-nymph foot
In a slender Paris shoe that mounts a soft stair
Of Victorian passion through seven dropped veils,
L'amour a la mode… Achoo!... avant la Grand Guerre....
An Herculean stud exploding from tight city trews
Hits smartly the small of Miss Marple's back,
(She turns) “J’ai désole! C’est le crime de passion, ca!" She’s hooked.
“Two Eyes,” hers answer, “to follow the murderer’s tack.”
Old Roman Remains and self-Brexit car jams
jarring up a beach road through Little England in the Styx
jerkily mis-directed around the ruins of ‘Jerusalem’
Dr Blak’s visionary folly, originally a chapel,
since the Death of the Author, a shrine,
and, after serial deconstruction,
a pocket-sized postmodern pastiche of Styles holiday home
for Mrs Wight’s beach whale SUV
parked outside her fridge and TV
to save her the trouble
of having to waddle
and closing all roads to the sea
by California-dried matinee-idol CIA heart-throbs
Frank and Mark Adams
filming Thought for the Day with Private Fraser
“WE’RE ALL DUMED!
and an episode of Top Cat
where he gets the world back
‘for not liking me’
with the President of the United States.
if you’ve been Dis-turbed
by any of the issues raised in tonight’s Dis-topian horror
ring your own number, Armageddon-out-of-here 666,
because nothing here’s as noiry
as your side of the screen!”
Block the Boudicca Trail up the B666. "This
Ain't the road to La Dolce Vita in Paradiso Elysium.
This is the road to Dis."
The Brown Lady appears with a headless Dr Blak,
Tarot card Britains facing forward and back.
Snow White takes them out in a panic attack:
"Not part of the cult-cha; not part of the pack!"
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7. |
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8. |
The Reverend Green
00:10
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9. |
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DI Ken scanned his furtive photocopy of Dr Blak’s Keynote Speech to the January 2020 Norfolk Noir Conference: “THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT POSTMODERN STYLES. A SUICIDE NOTE.” The Murderer had taken that rather more literally than Blak intended! Above Blak’s header was the conference’s own typed: “PRIVATE I'S-ATION AND THE MURDER MOST FOUL OF ONE NATION BRITAIN.” ONE NATION had been re-headed as LITTLE ENGLAND and “POSTMODERN STYLES” as “COCK HALL” in a purplish, blood-red hand. Though officially warned off the case, Ken wanted to check an unpaid hunch that the scythe attack by a hooded assailant had interrupted Blak’s speech at a critical moment. Ken wondered if this would cast any light on the equally dramatic timing of the murder of the Squire (in the Squire’s case, the night before he was due to announce the Greening of his estate):
Ken swigged his off duty bottle of Head Cracker and read the lecture:
“Agatha Christie may turn out to be the Shakespeare of the future whereas the Serious Literature of the 20C like her contemporary T.S. Eliot , in fracturing the link between poetry and the mainstream, may well have consigned the ‘slim volume’/ poetry quarterly art he distinguished to posh graffiti on a private wall no-one ever looks at. Imagine if The Waste Land had had a proper reveal like the first Poirot novel, The Mysterious Affair At Styles (written and set in 1916 and published in 1920, two years before Eliot’s masterpiece) or her Second World War update The Moving Finger (1943), where a shot-down RAF pilot convalesces in an obscure country town as old and deep as England, a “rural England…of lost pre-eminence…” “with its roots on the past.” My venue today, Little England in the Styx, a true bastion of 21C Breck’s Isle, is planning to host a Christie Murder Weekend here at Cock Hall every year. And why not? The Estate boasts not only a haunted ancestral pile and an ancient Roman Way, but also a long-running archaeological dig tracing its entire existence from the Bronze Age to the First World War. (Our Welsh visitors today are a reminder of a Britain older than England.)
But what would be the nature of this 21C Country House Murder? Visitors in search of their various versions of The Norfolk Paradise venturing down “The Boudicca Trail” and drawn instead by their own demons (and the spirit of our age) up the wrong road, to Dis. Cock Hall is the only place to stay on that road. A Haunted Hall with English stereotypes moving around a ‘Clued-Ouija’ board. And, like Hotel California, you can check out any time you like. But you can never leave -
At this point of Blak’s lecture, the scythe fell.
Who had it been, under that cloak-and-dagger hood? thought Ken. Suddenly Cock Hall felt more like Christie’s Chimneys – a Chequers of espionage– than her usual 5 storey Murder Mansion of Styles. Ken found himself suspecting ‘Mad’ Professor Plumski and his underground campaigns run from the Cock Hall cellar. Plenty of old cloaks and antique farming implements down there. And Plumski had been furious when Squire Peacock gave Blak the Keynote Speech for his Norfolk Noir Conference, displacing Plumski’s evil Marxist-Stalinist critique of the entire detective genre, of which his daughter Scarlet was so besotted. Did the Squire then have to die too, as part of Plumski’s Higher Cause of Bringing Down Capitalism? Was the lovely Scarlet even in on the double murder? If Agatha’s Christ Eyes could stop spooning with each other in the manner of an early T.S. Eliot poem for a few minutes, they could do worse than train their 20th century visions on Plumski’s cellar, where Marxist economic base met Freudian id. Pretty good at finding the ticking bomb under the civilised discontent...
A classic Christie Red herring, maybe, but there was only one way to find out.
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10. |
The Spanner
00:13
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Professor Plumski in the Study with Miss Scarlet with the spanner...
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11. |
The Seat of Power
04:36
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In a waking dream of un-buried murder,
Christie’s Argus ‘Eyes’ descend to the gun room below,
"Under all the tall storeys and ivory towers,
At the base of the noble mind, here, we know.
The viral Prof Plum has Scarlet’s software on his hard-drive!
"In your what-happens-next, whodunit waits upon 'I would'
Your class is the village's vampire, my child,
The dead past sucking its rosy future's blood.
"Now your father lies dead in a corona of thorns,
Evil future injected in God’s old lead money veins,
Play their Roman church candle shtick Fall Guy- and boom!
Nothing on earth to lose but your chains."
"All those grey, blue-rinsed, white lies they told me, Aunt Jane!
Then that ethical farmer, so reverend Green,
Just to ravish Dad’s blood-watered crops, not me!
Plumski's deep-frozen spirit was never so mean."
"But his youth’s fever dream in an old man’s fevered crown,
“Through your guilt”, Poirot cries, “is controlling your brain!"
"Life is Evil Made Do ('Made Old, You Old Maid!' sobs the Prof)
Or Made Good. Be the star of her fallen morning!" pleads Jane.
Prof remembers that spring atop the winter palace,
The warm youth he was… she has now. And then
To save her young heart, he blows out his brains. Poirot ducks.
Marple sighs, "An heroic, unhappy, almost English (dead) end!"
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12. |
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13. |
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Old Saxon boneyards and island-nation-sand-rammed
white builders' man-vans behind a fallen apple tree
(not to mention Post-man Pat in a moonstone-bright
Ghost Office delivery juggernaut for Mrs self-island Wight
in her self-unconscious authoritarian past tense
straight linear cause-effect oxygen-supply-demand
semi-detached bourgeois realist plot in-my-beginning
is-my-Middle-England-ever-after revenge narrative
planetary-extinction-with-farm-views cul de sac
of Argos ventilators; Amazon vaccines;
morgue suites from Iceland; gowns and masks from China;
and a private hospice the size of a small town
from Bathware, Kitchen & Hall
behind a rather remote-looking doctor
to whom she just gave her symptoms
being tracked 20 gridlocked miles out of Lee Harvey Oswald Drive
by THE CYBERTROLL SHOUTING “WHODUNIT!”
HE CARRIED HERE IT IN HIS TARDIS! HE’S A NASTY MAN!
“we all dunit! says DI Ken Hill.
“we are all the murderer and all the victim, oui,
but the self-isolation in the public spirit,
and the self-isolation of the self-interest,
are not at all the same
there is one here who murders society itself,
who is not at all le good bourgeois
he appears on the surface;
in the masks of China and the gloves of Italy and Spain;
and the Mend & Make Do & Die PPE Kits
of Little England in the Styx.
he is the one to blame; as the coroner will explain;
he is the Cain;” “or she,” coughs Jane
as the traffic rams)
Block the Boudicca Trail up the B666. "This
Ain't the road to Midsomer Maidens In The Woods Next The Tavern.
This is the road to Dis"
The Brown Lady appears with a headless Dr Blak.
She’s running late with all the traffic; she’s speaking through the flak,
"Krishna's Eyes in your Peacock tail: give them back!"
Snow White takes them out in a panic attack:
"Not part of the cult-cha; not part of the pack!"
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14. |
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...Ken!...
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15. |
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After life's coughs and splutters, the Squire sleeps well,
(Mustard's unconscious death-wish to be Squired can't stop him)
But the hardback slams shut and England’s unsolved,
Not coughing in its sleep, more asleep in its coffin.
Dick Sparrow, a Superhead in the clouds of un-doing,
Out of office (all) hours, baton-slick, born to run,
Guards the van of a new charge, retraining the House guides
In The Corona House Murder - And Making It Fun!
"It's political correctness gone m-mad!" trumps the Colonel
As his bust of Dr Blak is burned. "That pike-lip: it's
An original colonial design!" "Norman, you're political in
Correctness gone mad," says Miss Scarlet, "like Auschwitz.
"Your ‘omniscient’ Nazi counterplot with private alib-Eye
Would 'remove' PC Plot (and lady suspects from his scene
To your kitchen/bedroom) wipe your hand from the blade, unbreakably
Frame: Blak for Dad, Brown for Plum, and petrol tank my Green.”
The Colonel’s private Market Force glides over from Burnham
In a fleet of Chelsea tractors, each the size of his mother’s hearse
(As Eve falls) private wealth-cushioned against the potholes
In public roads (and health and schools) until the Covid 19 Curse.)
“When my Vikings scythed Blak’s head off at your Norfolk Noir launch
Of his PRIVATE I'S-ATION AND THE MURDER MOST FOUL
OF ONE NATION BRITAIN, you ‘solved’ the Death of that Author
But his ghost came for The Squire, damn his black bestseller soul!”
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16. |
In The Billiard Room
00:11
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17. |
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MAKE WAY FOR THE CHARIOT PRITANNIA
MAKE WAY FOR THE CHARIOT PRITANNIA
THE PAINTED PEOPLE
Old Viking murders and self-escape yachts
spilling Undead Rule Britannia landslides
of beached red herring
yanked out of the frying pan of Europe
into a twin tower safety burger to take out
live far eastern markets
and kit-supplied far eastern science
from these global-virus-conquered,
Nelson Victory lanes
by double cross-eyed
under-cover commie chefs Frank n Mark Adams
(“Government contracted on a private number.”
“You’re a marked man, Frank”;
“You’re a franked man, Mark”)
MAKE WAY FOR THE CHARIOT PRITANNIA
MAKE WAY FOR THE CHARIOT PRITANNIA
THE PAINTED PEOPLE
behind the Black Shuck Headline Hell Hound
of The Baskerville Telegraph
chasing a wild goose
a big game bargain-hunter in a mask
shooting 30 miles up to a Lidl in another town or county
in her top-of-the-range rover (clapping the NHS out of one window;
taxing its leave-to-remain out the other)
driven by no kind of need except ‘greed is good’
keeping the wheels of capitalism and coronavirus turning
chuntering “there IS no society
it’s up to the individual not the State how we risk our bodies
(and those of our neighbours and colleagues)
until we need the NHS, the BBC, the RAF
to save our little I-land of alien nation,
Block the Boudicca Trail up the B666. "This
Ain't the road to Valhalla in the Havens on the Haystacks next the Sea.
This is the road to Dis.
The Brown Lady appears with a headless Dr Blak,
Ghosts of an Empire Colonel Mustard wants back;
Snow White takes them out in a panic attack:
"Not part of the cult-cha; not part of the pack!"
MAKE WAY FOR THE CHARIOT PRITANNIA
THE PAINTED PEOPLE!
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18. |
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I’m snowed in at The King’s Head by holiday Homers
Who park three 4 by 4s each in lanes built for the horse
And a Berlin Wall roadworks winter-timed by the council
To suit the public house not the public, of course.
It can’t be Scarlet, though she Nayed the squire her father
And his bridal nomination, she loved them both really;
Her flirtation with the Prof was just her lovely filly’s folly
With a Hasbeen hogging our A&E. –Mine’s a gasper, thanks, and a G&PPE.
“Nor Royalist Lady Peacock, though she ‘dissed’ the squire her husband’s
Agreeing their daughter’s union with Radical Green Jack
Well, we know who wore the jodhpurs in the Peacock marriage.
No need to kill a spouse she could ride to Dis and back;
“Nor the Colonel with his Nasser-splintered one-eye Eden glass
Snitching, “I-I sawed him dead” for Eve’s attention since Eton,
Private selfies on the Oedipus trail, rewarded then, as now,
With a Caining and that private after-healthcare with matron.
(“Not on our NHS that hawks, with bright crack-papering bills,
ALL FOR SOME; SOMME FOR ALL; NO FUTURE; NO VACCINE; NO ANTIBIOTICS
But why I need an implant and a whitening root canal
And all the latest competitive bargains in surgical cosmetics)
“Nor Blak & Brown, whose Looks could, couldn’t Murder in a Library
From which they’ve been expired. Nor Jack the Public Green
In a Scarlet Study: he gave me his Old School word. And so
Beyond our DI Ken, a Last Trump over Poirot… it can only… have been -”
Old Civil War siege-works and laughing
lockdown-breaking Cavalier
Good King Charles Interpretation of History pub-tours
sponsored by Specsavers (should have gone to Oedipus)
2020 vision private double-cross four-eyed by Kentucky-fried,
California-dried CIA agents Frank n Mark Adams
(“Government contracted on a private number”)
“You’re a marked man, Frank”;
“You’re a franked man, Mark”
staking out a lost Castle of Perseverance
in an angel-wing mirror
cracked from side to side
between the Word on the street
and a Marlow hip-pocket vision of the bay
behind the fig leaves and Freudian slips
on the neighbour’s new line between private and public
(it’s a paradise lost!)
dried and re-drenched through a Sisyphus of storms
behind a private dick
still working the First Murder case
from dawn to dewy Eve like
FOREVER because HE dunit, Mark.
you mean like Oedipus, Frank?
Oedipus is all right if you like modern.
I mean like CAIN, Mark,
all boxed into a coffin cul de sac
by a parallel-parked nosy parker,
Block the Boudicca trail up the B666.
This ain’t the road to a New Model Millennium of the Saints.
This is the Road to Dis.
The Brown Lady appears with a headless Dr. Blak
And an All-in-all Saints commonwealth, plain English Jill and Jack.
Snow White takes them out in a panic attack.
Not part of the cult-cha, not part of the pack.
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19. |
The Hall
00:43
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Colonel Mustard with the Lounge, Dining Room, Kitchen, Ball Room, Billiard Room, Conservatory, and Study in the Hall.
Have they gone?
What shall I do with all the bodies, Colonel M-mustard?
Oh put them in the cellar with all the others. Looks like I've got away with m-murder again...
But he didn't strike the blows himself. That was...M-m-m-m-m-
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20. |
PC Plot's Arrest
06:44
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"THERE'S BEEN ANOTHER MURDER!" over-acts the Superhead
In the dug up Saxon boneyard, then sees the grave’s for real:
Captain Hastings in the trench, a Norman arrow through his 'I'
Ghost-written there by Mustard as 'The Squire' who cuts this deal:
“I’m your born-to-be-boy-General and life’s dealt m-me a loaded hand.
You can put your m-mortgage, children’s centre, white & blue shirt on me.
You can bank on another M-Mayfair house, another Grenfell hotel,
A neo-liberal M-murder case unleashing m-my Land of the Free
To trump as one (Mrs Wight too loud) “Build a Great Wall round China.
Send all the corona-sick yellowbellies; owlish Gretas; fires, bugs, rains;
Locusts, floods, foreign bodies, nasty reporters; hurricanes (you want
Fries with that vaccine?) back where the virus came…
“Mustard’s Holiday Hearths (with Chef ‘Gammon’ White) the new Kings
Of Cock Hall, will keep all our outlets open; all our inlets closed.
Together, we can carpet bomb the pinko out of this commie corona
With our hyper-ventil, market-leadin’, privateer overdose.
“Comme les généraux de mon pauvre capitaine Hastings à la Somme,
Your Private I’s too narrow, a troll’s blind glare at the Sun,”
Cries Green Eyes, glowing. “Game’s Up, ‘General’! Come into Mummy
For Supper,” pleads Jane. “NO! Let’s get this M-murder
Get this M-murder; Get this M-murder; Get this M-murder done…
“We arrest this minimalist counter-plot against Who Killed Cock Robin
For asset-strip/un-solv/ing the Excalibur Brand of Britain.”
States WPC Plot, “No account for the Cat what killed ’im
Could be so far behind the lines, so blithely underwritten…-”
First World War Aerodrome man-shells Somme-being back from the Front to Blighty to be blown up the ammo-box stairway of their Safe Bilayati Homes
and a ten-seater-one-man bandwagon right up its own ass
underwritten off through the front of a marked for life school bus
and out the back of an unmarked private ambulance
by Kentucky-fried, California-dried, reach-for-the-skied
comprehensively nationalised RTA Agents Frank n Mark Adams (“Government contracted on a private number.”
“You’re a marked man, Frank”;
“You’re a franked man, Mark”)
accelerated to a standstill by a Stop Cat
wall-eyed and simpsons-complexioned in the headlights
undertaking the middle of the road to conduct
Herman Scheizer’s Symphony N. 2 in F Major
with a riot gun and a bottle of thick bleach
waving the car jam he’s created
round the bend
of toilet creek down the free
way to hell mouth first
“i will make you phishers of men
that’s phishers with a PH
world-sellers and PH without the science
if you follow ME ME ME ME ME
to the End of the World
over your dead body”
NO thank you, says Frank.
No, thank YOU, says Mark.
Block the Boudicca trail up the B666.
This ain’t the road to the New Jerusalem Without the Walls of Gaza.
This is the Road to Dis.
The Brown Lady appears with a headless Dr. Blak
And the ghost of the brave new world of the young, which no wall can attack.
Snow White takes them out in a panic attack.
Not part of the cult-cha, not part of the pack.
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21. |
Barnard Castle
00:20
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Dominic Cummings in a Barnard Castle blindspot with....the VIRUS!!!
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22. |
2020 Vision (The Reveal)
20:20
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Dick Head ‘turned around’ the Driftwood Park ‘Striving For’ Comp.
epetence minus 90 degrees to a MARKET-BRAND ACADEMY:
Murder by Bullet-point; Framework, Special Pleads (you’re an F-
ranked man, Mark) the THIRD BEST sponsored SCULL IN DIS ON SEA!
With Tom Jone’s Fielding; Pupil-Self-Assesed Good Writting
And Speeling; How Animals Runed Poor Mr Jone's Fram;
Made it spin Sunset-West down a progress-listing poster
And never cracked the class ceiling. But even Dick can’t unjam
Colonel Mustard, in the Dining Room with smoking Revolver,
Asks where any secret passage to Happiness is.
"There's no Way Out," sighs Lady Peacock, "no 4-cornered flights
From this Clued-Ouija Board, just the Night Train to Dis."
Dis appears! Cock Hall convenes. Christie’s Argus-vision pans
"We accuse! In every room. With every weapon... Mustard-queen…
Ethnic-cleansin’ …Blak-toppin’ … Blakfacin’… Plum-Red Herrin’… Brown Peacock-nosin’… White-maskin’ MRS BLIGHT!"
"I ’ad to bleach the ’arse of ALL THE BLAKS, BRANS and GREEN!
Mrs Blight is marched away and Winter goes with her.
Spring is back on the menu, multi-coloured and diverse.
Dis approves and announces that he wants to be Miss Scarlet
"Don’t we all?" says DS Len. "No," a primrose Jane demurs.
Dis untangles the Brown Lady, reveals Parvati-Proserpina
In a Wife-of-Turnip-Townshend ghost-disguise!
Dr Blak blows his trumpet, England's foundations rock,
Green Eyes dances Blue Eyes into the sunrise.
Raised Stone Age axes, Raised Bronze Age wheel-Barrows; Raised Iron Age death-works and Plastic Age-brand-named
-ILLITERATE-BANNER-CAPITALS
get-my-own-back private enterprise
against the world plague wagons
overtaken by Chlorinated Intelligence Agent Frank n Mark Adams
You’re a marked man, Frank;
You’re a franked man, Marx
“To be frank, Mark,
if market is the scratch not the itch of need,
where are our testing kits, masks and vaccines?”
“to be mark, Frank,
with a franked mark
i can buy up the world supply of remdesivir
the human race is over here
and America finished
first…”
undertaken by a hell’s angel
bat-released from lockdown
cresting the hill above happy valley
on one wheel
blowing the Last Trump
LEAVE the Boudicca Trail DOWN the B666
to bronzed, new-aged, post-modern diggers Jack Green and Miss Scarlet
at the altar in the greenwood with the bluebells. This
Ain't the road to Hiraeth, That Long-Logres-Lost-Land-Home-Grief To Be Elsewhere.
This is the road to Bliss.
“I didn’t see that coming!” ejaculates Dis, Not a Million Miles West from
Nowhere Lane
As scenes from the Passion in an Easterly procession
Line the Walsingham Way and heavens above
Turn St Mary's snowdrops through an orientation
To daffodils of fire. Through Death, Jane remembers,
with poppies, to Love.
Canon Bullfinch Rook-Lark
transfigured
by grief
into a Dove
caught
in south window
Light
eulogises ‘our late
Squire
Robin Peacock
983-2020:
what a friend
we had in Jesus
College
Cambridge
and now
in Heaven
on a Covid 19
thunderbolt
taken for the team.’
Squire Robin Peacock belonged to one of England’s oldest Saxon families. He invited historians, archaeologists and visionaries like the late Dr Blak to investigate how, six decades into each millennium, on his land, our village resisted a seismic new national epoch. In AD61 it was Boudicca’s British resistance to the Roman Empire. In AD 1067, in and around Wicked Fen, Hereward’s English resistance to the Norman Conquest. In “The Clued Ouija Board” a posthumous deconstruction of his own murder, Peacock warns of a coming global viral invasion which can destroy - or re-unite – not just the country but the entire planet. He exhorts our bolt-hole backwater to stand again on the Front Line of history, as we did, in a reminder of a Britain older than England, behind that glorious holly-and-wickerwork Iceni chariot of Boudicca. As we did behind the progressive Whig family firm of Townshend and Walpole as it rebuilt Cock Hall and revolutionised and fertilised its green and pleasant land with the blood, sweat, toil and tears of Empire. Now as the world has come back to Little England in the Styx on a sneeze, he bequeathes to us the task of returning Cock Hall to the heart of world affairs.
Canon Dove
wants to ‘do
something good here’
(and not just the year
of the communion wine)
channels a sermon
down the tragic flaw
in the True Greatness
Of Winston’s
(Winston-cleaned)
statue
stonily saluting
with both fingers
zeig-heil Tommies,
‘football lads’
ministers of hate,
‘protecting’
his mighty V
from black lives
that matter,
black lives
consigning
a stony merchant
for whom
275, 000 African lives
(of 12 million,
1500-1800)
didn’t matter
to the dock
as the real football lads
kneel to a teammate
Dis ceases; frees Parvati and the head of Dr. Blak
And Great Britain as its Little England shell starts to crack.
Its private I-solation, its dracula virus-attack,
10 million cases and a corpse count continuing to stack,
Dis-solved in a spinning blue globe whorled back on track,
I-dentified with All in All (else forever changing tack)
LOVE’s Undead anti-Dracula, who gives the Lifeblood back….
Love rolls the die; His dying role; His Ace, King, Queen. And Jack.
All part of the culture, All-in-all of the pack.
|
||||
Peacock's Tale Musical Storytelling Sedgeford, UK
It's all right, folks, we're married. A marriage of melody and rhythm ( flirting with harmony & timbre.) Old married woke
folk, indie, Norfolk noir, beat poems, ghazals & Americana for the world from NW Norfolk. Maz lead & harmony vocals, acoustic guitar. Gaz lead & harmony vocals, drum & bass. Traditional tunes with contemporary beats.
garethcalway.blogspot.com/p/doin-different.html
... more
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