Mike steps up to the mike,
pumped up, excited,
at the meeting of the local chapter of the BNP,
hands trembling, brandishing a high-velocity rifle.
“Your right and mine!” he barks,
waving the weapon like a flag
before their starry eyes
to rapturous applause.
“No banker gonna take this from me,” he pauses.
“No Jew lawyer or judge.
No pink-clad feminists, no poofs, no black
boy just off the boat with a cob on about human rights.
Not even me own mum.
No eggheads or EU bureaucrats. No spineless
spastics, no socialized medicine touting NHS doctors and nurses,
no old folk, no neurotic bleeding heart conscientious-objector types
sporting their shameful white poppies on Remembrance Day.
None of the above!” He slams the rifle down on the podium.
“This,” he lingeringly fingers the trigger,
“is where—finally—the buck comes to a stop.”
Several undercover police officers erupt in standing ovation,
as Mike struts back to his seat, proud of the work he has done.
The party chairman
shakes Mike’s hand and invites him
to join the rugby club. Welcome
to the scrum. “A bit rough around
the edges, but he has a certain charm.
Good for pulling the young folk in,”
the club chairman remarks casually later
to his posh golfing buddies over a beer.
The blunt lead air-gun pellet bounces off of the birch tree,
and rebounds whizzing thrillingly around the boy’s
blond locks, frustrating the irresistible urge to hunt and kill.
Better guns are advertised in magazines, he thinks.
Dirty Harry on TV.
And now he has that job at the meat-packing factory,
the sky’s the limit, despite all that nonsense at school.
He smells bad all the time, but the blood
and his pristine white abattoir uniform
proudly bear the colors of the English national flag.
Buy British Meat is the slogan
that adorns the company’s messages on billboards
and in the intervals in the evening soaps.
The girlfriend-to-be gags on pork pies,
every time she thinks of him, pony-tail
tucked up neatly under her standard-issue
white health&safety-approved company hat.
She works in accounts. Mike
drools over pictures of ninjas and swordsticks
in off-beat fanzines as he warms up
dinner in the microwave
and watches the guts being washed off of the clothes
in the new Electrolux washing-machine. The appliance
of science. Sci-fi explains it all.
Mike queues up to sign for the package
and the license at the Post Office
among the decrepit picking up their pensions
and the losers pocketing the giros
they scuttle off to squander in betting shops and pubs.
The woods are a welcoming place.
Mike takes a deep breath of cool, wet,
refreshing bark-scented air,
dead leaves crunched underfoot,
folk foraging for firewood,
fungi, ticks, fauna, psychos, family outings—
a sweet bouquet of decay.
(14) Michael Angel
The mower shooting
has kicked up a helluva fuss.
The cop copter is back up in the air
overhead. Mike cuts off
through the poplar trees,
darts across the playing field
and scrambles up the well-camouflaged
leafy embankment into the art workshop
of the C of E governed Richard of Gloucester
Middle School closed for recess
that he used to attend.
The walls are adorned with artwork
to celebrate the Harvest Festival
that some kids must have been allowed in
to prepare during the vac. Corn dollies
hang from the ceiling. Some sick fuck
has drawn a wicker man. Fruit is piled
up in imagination for Autumn
and bottled in jars. The fields
blaze with purging flame. Two cop helicopters
now are circling in, a SWAT team moving stealthily
up the embankment. Gruff voices through
trumpets of megaphones,
calling him Michael—no-one ever called him that—
urging him to turn himself in. Mike knows
the game is up, upends the shotgun
and nuzzles it carefully under his chin, says
a little last prayer to Mother Mary,
and paints the stucco of the art workshop ceiling
with a fresco of lead shot, blood, brains
and ears of corn.
“Target down”, a voice crackles over a walkie-
talkie and the cops and the crime-scene clean-up folk move in.
Song # 9 The School Bullies’ Barbers Quartet
We drag you to the underground,
as soon as down appears on chin.
We toy a razor round
your throat but never stick it in.
We order how you cut your hair
to fit in with the crew.
We mock you when your crotch is bare
and when pubes grow there too.
We haunt you in the shower
and on the hockey field.
The teachers give us power
to use the sticks we wield.
We are the social barbers,
expunging all dissent,
our emblem blood-smeared razors,
white foam emolument.
We pull your baby teeth in ways
no fairy can reward.
We darken sunny summer days
when we are sad or bored.