Devils Armada

DEVILS' ARMADA.

Upon capitals stream the Devil's Armada sallies forth
In long continuous drift, fetid water borne.
On the bank an obelisk, twice erected, once lost in Biscay's Spume,
points skyward at smoke stained grey clouds.
This monument guarded by feline monarchs, once paid tribute to noble
Anthony's Paramour, but now only adds to the clutter of a modern
Windsor Queen's realm.

Unobserved by most Satan's Fleet sails on through Waterloo's
Span.
Past the now silenced guns of Wellington, Chrysanthemum and warlike
President.
Under Blackfriars, Southwark and London on to thick walled keep.
To gate where ferry borne traitors entered, never again to exit.
At these ramparts the evil flotilla stops, not by anchor, or defeat,
but returning back upon its beat on an ebb now turned to flood.

Many and varied are its craft.
None bear brave flag nailed to stubborn gaff.
Not even one of convenience, which would have been appropriate.
For it is the oozing of the city that flows thus, past great bridges,
ships and boats.
Flotsam in all variety, moulded containers, paradoxically some spent of
detergent fluid used for killing filth.
Which their very presence now promotes.
Bobbing bottles upended, necks pointed down to river bottom.

A floor or bed made up of reconstituted food carrying disease, some
sold before in health food store.
Faeces not yet broken down to add to this gritty reeking grime.
Foreign correspondence or rather sheath of phallus.
Once filled proud, now a half submerged ghostly shroud. Bearing viscous
unrequited seed in its knotted envelope.
In this scum a drowned cat provides a feast for a browsing rat.

Amidst this mess Methane produced from degradation bursts from
bubble.
Causing rainbow colours of oil to ripple and swirl in an aquatic Aurora
Borealis.
Numerous times this wicked convoy so various and unending cruises up
but mainly once more down.
Passing within sight of the matriarch of legislation. Where subjugation
is honed then hailed as law.

On these roads swim squat barges shaped like flat irons, towed and
tended by fussing tugs.
Steam whistles splutter then scream, adding to other traffic
noise.
In a grand cacophony, playing like a dirge for a once green
world.
Now being sacrificed on an altar of materialism. Tintinnabulations from
many a tower indicating to the populace the hour.
Reminiscent of the knell calling the mourners to pay their last
respect
Sad of eye would the poet be if he could now gaze down from
Westminster's Crossing.
To a scene who's majesty is now profane.
But amidst this pessimistic effusion hope shines through, slightly more
than an illusion.
Yonder in all this contagion a wild, large spiked Lupin has taken
tenuous root, on a rough-hewn rotten mossy beam.
A skylark rises with a song like a benediction.
Maybe in this eleventh hour man will become subject to a new world
order.
Harnessing nature with a somewhat gentler bridle. Wind, wave and solar
becoming new benign world power.

Polaris and Trident steered to plough through loam after being turned
from Odin's Main.
Proper stewardship of this planet may result in Gaia from her sick
couch rising.
She suffers from fatal infliction, which if not halted. Will lead to
both her, and Humankinds demise in total. Beware then all you who
aspire or reside in high office. Or to guard your seat, make decisions,
which increase the acid cloud or Devil's Fleet
Supplying Gaia with a Viking Pyre while wrapped in a poison
shroud.
Who then will write your pompous epitaph?
Or if it is written, then who will read it?
If mammon is your materialistic motivation, then be warned.
The only currency in Hell is pain and suffering.

by Don Passmore ?