plein [X]

there’s a mechan bass
like a band of grey
     most of the way down the image
it’s an old road
     not properly maintained
still used
     the grass has eaten the edge

there’s a guy’s voice
     doing the drone
it’s a blue sky
     but that’s the grey blue
     of dusk with dust
a boring cold sky
kicking in your eyes
     dull distant factories
the kind where they make
     paperclips that break

and the rhythm
it’s the heartbeat of broken dog
smelling of the piss
     of the tramp
     it follows
he’s sort of just about there
like the rhythm

they’ve changed the tune
it’s gone jaunty
like stubbing your kidney
     on blade

in this image
there’s a couple of bored boys
     kicking a stone
hair styled by their mother
     i presume
and you know
if they were self–aware
they’d never dress that way

either the band’s guitarist
     got bored
     before he picked up his instrument
or the poor guy’s
got a repetition fetish

he’s the bricks
the bricks in the old worn down wall
behind the road
the same the same the same

it’s just straight
no bends no variety
there’s a gate
     closed & locked
where he could have escaped

from the road
to the wall
to the factory
it’s just grass
identikit monotony grass
grass that couldn’t be arsed
the ennui ideal
boredom’s masterpiece

someone’s photoed some chairlegs
not me
but that’s interesting
bye bye

i’ve just remembered
when i was about
i’d swear seven
but probably ten
i got told
to write a story
for homework
i gave myself a challenge
to make it boring
so i made it boring
and the teacher criticised me
for making it boring
and i told him
that i’d done that deliberately
and he didn’t get it
poor bugger

i didn’t know then
what i do know now
that certain perfections
     produce boredom
the music down the street tonight
the lawn the lawn
     the weed–free lawn

let me assure you
my seven year old me  essay
or maybe  ten year old me  essay
was not   never could be   perfection
it should have been encouraged
it’d have fitted so nicely
with the english ideal
of the ordinary
the dull
the dimwitted
the incompetent

and they way they gloat

world war two
     world war two
          world war two

garden party
     garden party
          garden party

foreign is horrid
     foreign is horrid
          foreign is horrid

the dynamic’s a game
     you’re the pot

why don’t i play
     i’ve often wondered
can’t see the reward
     whether actual or printed
to me
     so what

it’s that guitarist again
     pointing out
     that blade of grass
     in the foreground

     a blade of grass

it’s an interesting example
     of how civilised societies
     lose dynamism
i think that teacher
     told me
     a few years later
if society’s safe
     there’s no need
     to play
     the game

     the english choice
     is to stress
     through ugliness
     no not real ugliness
     there’s many great things there
     social ugliness
     headspace ugliness
     control through cowardice

     that’s ever the case

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