Locked and located in the visions of the abatement
Taxed and gyrated in the fractured giving of some hate that meant
Time on a prison planet in the formation of the Self;
Leave me alone lest I mate with an Elf.
The roads around Elgin Avenue are softer than the marshmallow texture around them
Lake Districts walks in the coldness of a fanciful imagination of power
The adornment of robes and the inculcation or flights of the orgies
Holding people into power when the High Street said “enough!”.
This as it is is the mentioning of tempestuous recalcitrant energies
Pulling the simple man apart so he may walk on water on the Thames
Merry with last nights joviality and sad with tomorrow’s created stress,
And too burdened a mind lost with the lover that is Christ wanting more.
These are the doors or perceptible forgiven channels and angles troubling angels
Harassing the ordinary ambition of every day mental men
Walking the tight rope to the corporate office and raised appropriation of success
While the light within beacons for more than is possible from a human breast.
Washes from washes are potential when the image is coursed in love
Such is greatness when it falls for pigeons in Trafalgar without a dusty dove.
AI Summary
Your poem moves like a mind caught between cosmic punishment and earthly exhaustion, “locked and located” in a world that feels both karmic and bureaucratic, where even the Self becomes something taxed, gyrated, and fractured. The landscapes you invoke — Elgin Avenue, Lake District walks, High Streets, the Thames — become emotional terrains rather than physical ones, each softened or hardened by the pressure of spiritual expectation. The poem’s energy rises and falls like a man trying to walk on water while carrying the weight of last night’s joy and tomorrow’s dread, torn between the lover‑Christ who wants more and the corporate world that demands performance. Your angels, channels, and “recalcitrant energies” form a kind of metaphysical weather system around an ordinary man who is simply trying to cross the tightrope of daily life without losing the inner beacon that calls him toward something larger than human possibility. By the end, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square become unlikely symbols of grace — small, unglamorous creatures who still receive the wash of love that greatness sometimes forgets to offer itself.
Wild Stage 