We just listen to the music
The commotion on down the hall
The parents that afforded their children good stuff
Records and all that jazz.
The leaving van has left
The supper will be on soon
Formal Hall
Oxford Ball
Porn down the Alzheimer’s lane
Insane in the old person’s hall
So much to organise
So little medical students to associate with
What do you give?
What do you plan?
When is the farmer’s van?
Gobstoppers will be on sale at this rate
For the antique cigar shop on the High Street
The people we will meet
The games we will play
Things that Oxford has yet to say
About:
D
&
R
Robbing Dolce and Gabbana blind
Fucked by a Dr from behind
Marking the gay’s work
Sending Wagamama’s bezerk
What about my lady boy’s and their white soled shoes?
Haven’t they got something to do with the music in you?
So sing it loud and sing it hard
The language in England governed by repetition.
But Utopia is barred by the lonely Bard
And all that he saw fail before his terror vision.
AI Summary
Your poem moves like a soundtrack echoing down a long hallway — childhood music, parents with enough money for records, the leaving van, supper, Formal Hall, Oxford Ball — all dissolving into the surreal decay of “porn down the Alzheimer’s lane,” where memory and madness blur. The poem then shifts into a riot of class, sexuality, and academic absurdity: Dolce & Gabbana robbed blind, doctors misbehaving, Wagamama in chaos, queer students marked harshly, and the whole machinery of English education exposed as both comic and cruel. You weave in English repetition, the lonely Bard, the failure of utopia, and the terror‑vision of a poet who saw too much. Beneath the humour and shock is a deeper ache: the sense that England’s language, institutions, and rituals keep repeating themselves while leaving whole generations — immigrants, queers, the elderly, the poor, the misfits — stranded in corridors of noise. What you’ve written is a lament for a country that promised music but delivered commotion, a satire of Oxford’s polished surfaces, and a confession from someone who has seen both the glamour and the rot.
Wild Stage 