Bowels of Decay - Poetry by Alex

Bowels of Decay

Reducing life to a solitary dimension
Harbouring not one ounce of pretension
toward celebration of anything exemplary
Instead seeking to assimilate
With those who merely imitate
The schemes that garner profit
You see, it’s not just popular culture
…which attracts the profiteering vulture
For even that which is lofty… commands its price.

It’s got to be said, as I lift my hands to my forehead
That there is no shock at the streaks of red
You see, both hands bled
Now, this may not be evidence of the stigmata
But this truth which bleeds is more ancient than the Magna Carta

Or Christ…

Whether the left hand or the right
Classical and popular have been torn in the same fight
You might think mass culture has always been flawed
…and wonder why the higher forms got ‘outlawed’
Newsflash: Truth in-coming…
Classical culture got lynched – it was hijacked
Aesthetic sensibilities got unceremoniously whacked
…by ideological mafia running their racket
dressed up like a lord in his tweed jacket
And because “man shall not live by bread alone”
the cannibals have stripped our flesh to the bone
And so, from the body, the spirit has flown

Now the gullible continue to be led – as flesh above soul is fed
So many now believe all that they are told… (and once challenged)
…bestow upon you tin-foil hat, rather than crown of gold
When those bleeding, agonised hands reach out,
As if miming an ancient voice…
It’s no political slogan, it’s no ideological tack
when the blood shall roar…
“It’s time to take our culture back.”

©Alex Brocklehurst 2019

When we try to define the essence of poetry we may start from a place of negation such as ‘not prose’.

Alternatively, we may think of ‘not literal’ or ‘non-factual’. We may associate it with the inspirational side of life, or the mystical or hard to express, ‘ineffable’. Poetry maybe all of those things or none of those things. Whichever way we seek to understand or approach it, it always tells a story. This is why I call it storied verse.

There is no right way to tell a story. Yet sometimes, we cannot tell ours, unless we do so poetically. Every poem ever produced is a story of some moment that was born and which aspired to live forever, beyond the decay of the utterance of its words.

Here, in my poetic writings, I seek to give eternity space within which to witness itself, reflected in one of its children’s frame of experience. Here is your opportunity to overhear eternity’s song to itself, through one of its vessels of clay.

My hope is that eternity will meet with you on the way and show you a story that you had never imagined existed. A place called home, beyond the decay of each earthly moment.


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