To Ben
On Sparty Lea.
for all those who had a dalek
What you may read and what you may you hear
is not what it seems or what it might appear,
British poets punching, cursing, and doing all
kinds of things, after some beer during nightfall
they are generally to be found in a warm library
reading quietly, quite sound, something contrary
to the image passed round, about these pissed
and stoned: the radical, the left and anarchist
tendencies are now firmly suppressed, they now edit
their past, and rather than rolling up a joint of dope,
they are more likely to look up a point in Pope.
and this Ben is the stage when you must act your age,
and at fifteen, take up arms, and attack the page,
headbutt the word, kick the adjective downstairs,
curse at the pronoun, fuck me, and join the players,
who treat the world like a puzzle or a language game,
who paint some pretty pixel picture, or engage in flame,
this then the revolution, this is for you Ben the legacy
left by the battle Royale, left by those at Sparty Lea.
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