Cornwall Poem by John Russell

The eagle flies o’er the landscape and surveys down
Like some cancer-strewn death ridden clown
Like some sick joke in the mind of a mad man.
As beyond the moors and lichen down
Thicket twisted and blown
Like a manic corpse screwed
Regal illuminated o’er its dire monarchy
Encrusted black, frosted like a ruby encapsuled-set
in an articulated apparatus of shit
Of shit-house British aristocrat dilettantes
Shitting out their second-rate, parochial,
Clogged up, shitted out killing machine
Anti-modernist lame-arse cunts
Stinking privileged wankers in their Cornwall.
Wallis fucked up, banal, restricted
Closed out, private property, protecting
Reinforcing, tin mine fantsies and tales
Of exhuberant light for them to
Energise their fucked out fantasies
Of superiority to the world of work
In existential fantasy and occultism
And socialism/non-socialism
Twisted branches/bones on moors
Blated by winds and elements in
An uncaring universe as spiraling vortex
Of/to nothing as abjection, desolation
Extermination. Terror in a handful of dust.
Pustulous and transformed.
Dusted, frosted beyond down hell-fucked
Drenched in piss and blood of tin miners
And fish gulping up, licking flies
As rapturous extension plies
The choking God trace of bracken fields
As the black-shard of flattened trees
Drowning in oil soaked seas.