The W.A.S.T.E Land.

Recollected in Tranquillity

When months and days have passed into obscurity,
And the hops have killed off the taste,
We shall still sit silently pondering
In drunken philosophies and rambling idiosyncrasies
What the hell Beckett was on about.

That dull monstrosity,
Empress over London's scene,
Flopped along the riverside,
Is at our backs.

You say you've never seen an octagonal pub before:
"Since when does geometry figure in to
public houses?"

All of Albion's patchworked plains
Point directly to our position,
As if constantly paying their respects, genuflecting
to our First City.
It makes one feel serene, especially
Running through its tangled veins,
Trying to best the clock,
And the Tube schedule.

Last call sounded like Westminster Abbey, Big Ben
And my piddly parochial church's bells
Mangled into one:
We're all in it now, we close our eyes,
I was present when Jesus dies.

I had to be informed of the fact
That you are dead.
This Tuesday gone, you were shot
From behind, left alone and bleeding out,
In some Middle-Eastern marketplace.
I wept for days, even if I did miss the funeral.
London, 2005. R.I.P.

When I'm at the Pearly Gates,
I hope you're there to greet me,
With St. George and St. Paul -
His cross and his cathedral
Made even us feel part of it all.

Rule Britannia, and all that.
Elevensies and tea at four, my dear boy
Umbrellas, red buses and whatever else I've forgotten.
Nous serons toujours les étrangers.

I'm still waiting for fucking Godot.