Last Brexit to Europe

Filed under:poetry — posted by Schizostroller on June 30, 2016 @ 11:10 am

Last Brexit to Europe.

Article 50, act of completion?
The act of a Boris Johnson on the Eurostar.
It is only a J Arthur Rank.
Just a spectacle?
Onanism Interruptus.
Brief Encounter never consummated.
Repressed English,
poor communication
Crossed mobile lines.
Worse than the phoning Kafka’s Castle from the pub.
Why Major had a problem with such a minor literature.
Shout louder at a foreigner so that they understand you.
Cameron started it,
sent the train into the tunnel
(Some novel about Heathcliff’s burnt hovel).
Hit on the head with a pig iron,
the train driver is comatose
on moonshine
a media tonic of manipulated
What fore?

Sifting the remains of Sheffield in the day?
Selling out the history of industry
to low waged
Joy Divison service industry?
Even Stevens?
Boris’ turn to finish it off.
Sloppy seconds at the workhouse.
Couldn’t commit.
Zipped up his Lord of the Flies.
Caught halfHitchcocked with Vertigo.
Hanging off a railway bridge,
never got to The Chunnel from St Pancreas,
Only got around about 50%.

Who’s going to sign Article 50?
Train’s stuck on an Ouboros.
Serco line, send it to district 13?.
Pull the emergency brake,
Or bring it in to the station.
Will it be the May Queen
taking it into the tunnel?
Illegal aliens to be processed?
Someone needs to tell herr,
deep space blacks hawking down there,
fleeing war children refugees fleeing
999km deep down
in that kind of tunnel space
No-one will hear her scream.

Schizo Analysis from Deep Space 9 Millimetre: The Brexit Report

Filed under:poetry — posted by Schizostroller on June 29, 2016 @ 7:37 am

In the wake of the result of Brexit

and the purloined responsibility for austerity

and the crisis.

I found myself wondering,

a quickly drying up pondering on,

a thought related to a shibboleth,

merely as vast as La Manche.

Channelling ideas via the representation of

the ferry of light

the local distribution hub

bringing grumbling truckers thoughts, and tourist dreams

from Europe, twice a day,

who are just passing through the ground air space

as they drive on into England

first facing the incinerator,

the Glade air anti-freshener.

In the port that is the reason

for the locality of my hearth being

currently in the edgelands

of a local interzone, a non-place,

where musings like these,

influenced by the genii loci like that

come up with this:

With regards the British saying

referring to the veracity of a statement,

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

Is Lacan Catholic?

Or was he a huge knot?


Guattari was a

smelly, shaggy dog.

As I, a schizo,
sit here analysing the unreason
from Deep Space 9 millimetre,

The gatekeeper at the end
of a wormhole connecting to

the time warp and woof woof of life.
Is New heaven a safe space,
for theoretical refugees?
At least there’s a last exit to Dieppe
For when the huge Brits get too close.