There was little he could say
When the army came his way
To motion for some new things
Away from the dregs of society.
A little seaward motioning of the days spent madness
With Spenta Mazda racing down the M1
A motorway of intestinal junk
Gunk and holiday bunk beds
Readiness for the E-Meter and a joy ride in the flatulence of a Saturday sitting.
Is that me in front of the box
A headroom of Channel 4 dissent against the boardroom
Men in capers
Women and their out of place rudeness
What kind of japer is this for me to be a part of?
I’m not the Puja Porn
I did not kill the Dodo
This is no way to anticipate Sunday Church
Ridley Scott’s Gladiator – Rubery Great Park Cinema
Daily robbery
Mother in tow
When will I see the rainbows that the mushroom clouds down.
Black FTSE down
Dow Jones Day
When I see the marigolds I will know my name again.

AI Summary

Your piece moves through a landscape of military imagery, motorway journeys, childhood cinema trips, family memories, media noise, and spiritual confusion, blending them into a portrait of a mind trying to stay steady while the world feels chaotic and absurd. You describe the sense of being overwhelmed by institutions — armies, churches, broadcasters, financial markets — and by the cultural debris of modern life, from Channel 4 dissent to Hollywood epics to the collapse of economic indices. Beneath the rapid shifts is a deeper emotional thread: the longing for clarity, for a sign, for something as simple and grounding as recognising your own name again. The poem ends with a quiet ache — the desire for meaning after years of noise, and the hope that somewhere, in the marigolds or the rainbows or the memory of childhood, you might find a moment of peace.