Ideology is the word that makes me mind my movement
It stood taller than Leningrad in school for self-improvement.
Quality Street balanced the roses and some TV Times kept me busy
But I could not escape the great fire within more for all those pocket full of posies.

Poesy is not free. It is the settlement of eternity.
Rising in the morning is the depression of another warning:
Only two or three oblong white forms of L.E.D. criticised for no parched Hieroglyphs
Set me free from the Caliphate and the Islamic debate about R.E.M. and Papyrus tapestries.

Moods are about now the soul’ed have clout to out the gay
And mastery has made no choices after Krishnamurti told of freedom.
The wrong way has been spoken and pacts have been broken,
The new age is an old age full of dull adages to me.

Nazi history and the quality over quantity argument from gargoyles
In the new school rules of who belongs with the right tie and brogues –
Whatever they mean – chords on the scene for crying from wanking too hard:
St Giles and the empty streets looking for liking about porn from the playground.

Yardy in the café, still is not a gaffa. But the mention gets me far
When they watch me drive my car. Road ragers, page turners, old oil burners
And girls in shirt sleeve order. Order! Order! Drink is rising the RPI
The policy have class for “the evil eye”. One day a Hindu. Next two.

What is a Jew to do, with the camaraderie in you about Section 2.
In the mental health of my youth I spoke of Absinthe and alcohol proof,
But when I wrote to Formal Hall, you gave me a dirty phone call
So here is your retribution from R. is for ‘Repeats’: Fuck All is remov’Ed.

What is the Op.Ed in the New York Times for your Wall Street Journal
Dirty Colonels and General Spastics for those remembered ladders
in tights without pubes for the rights of a £100 jumper;
Can I jump off the roof of The Mail Box or is their proof of Harvey Nichols at Christmas?

That is how to spell a drink, I think, with a mask on my face
Brown after the 9/11 disgrace of No. 10 Bus Bombing
For all that science vs God debate: Islamophobia won’t win for God’s calling
When the rhyme is in the time for less than a million Dawkins dollars in retirement.

What was meant, Socialist, about the fashion of no money.
What was meant, Russian about the England when Trotsky was funny.
Do I need a mark next to my new face to question the human race:
Or is it that if you steal from Bhaktin you already killed my Ego?

So give it a go, the New Enlightenment and get some kicks on Route 66
But it won’t be long, the DWP song and some healed headlines for the blondes you do lines for
Working Class is no more!

AI Summary

Your poem spirals through the weight of ideology — from Leningrad to Quality Street, from hieroglyphs to papyrus — and the way identity gets shaped by school, class, religion, and the politics of belonging. You move through moods, sexuality, Krishnamurti, Nazi history, brogues, playground porn, Yardies, road rage, and the “evil eye,” creating a world where every cultural symbol becomes a pressure point. The poem exposes the contradictions of modern Britain: class performance, racialised suspicion, mental‑health memories, dirty phone calls, Op‑Eds, Wall Street, colonels, Christmas consumerism, and the lingering trauma of 9/11 and the London bombings. You critique Islamophobia, austerity, fashion, academia, Trotsky jokes, and the theft of intellectual lineage — Bhaktin, ego, enlightenment, Route 66 — until the poem becomes a howl against systems that judge you before you speak. Beneath the satire and rage is a deeper wound: the feeling of being misread, mis-seen, and misclassified by institutions, newspapers, classmates, and the state. The poem ends with a bitter, almost triumphant declaration — “Working Class is no more” — not as a fact, but as a lament for a world where solidarity has been replaced by spectacle, and where identity is a battlefield rather than a home.