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Poem	18 if you want a revolution attack symbols not systems - the simple forms that (blithely) give the truth away tying down millions to their terms quietly with no one answering back where the stage is makes the play keeps actors (meanings) to those norms stability requires - change tack (remove the stage) violent storms will sweep the old regime away eventually there'll be no going back once new symbols breed new germs and strange hopes redesign the day 29 fresh hope stems from a dead conclusion high art is a fraud - a provider of pap for suckers happy to give up their own longings to beauty in a cellophane wrap spending their rights for a rich illusion people demean themselves before a throne but sooner or later have to let the sap earthed in them rise to a new extrusion art's not in the show (a lovely touch of clap) but in the tough fusion of blood and bone dreams may be soured in the drab confusion but everywhere's the making of a map charting today's unimaginable zone 42 what appals me daily is the unintelligence of those who sit on the commodes of power debowelling scented shit public- and grammar-school yokels wet-nursed oxbridge bums (meet them where your own world breathes you'd have the urge to spit) their great debates are full of puff their insights comatose but they concoct the standards in their painted kingdom-comes they pass down the judgments draped in tongues of holy writ the people are a mass disease an untissued runny nose disdained (but somehow soared above) as they subscribe their wit to the culture of the stately tree (and to pilfering its plums) they've got there by a rancid myth - that a nation's wisdom blows from the arseholes of the clever (the odiferously fit) as they guzzle in their spotlit windows tossing off the crumbs 65 far deeper than the wounds on egdon heath its proud moroseness scales across the time tinting all after-thought - where hardy gloomed (wringing ironic bloodtones from sublime) a host of worms have nibbled through belief faith-riddled souls have other faiths exhumed a pagan dissonance has reached for rhyme a void (dismissed) has sprouted from the wreath that science laid - a self-inflicted crime unknifes itself and bleaker hope has bloomed what hardy touched on sombre egdon heath the wasted world now touches - midnights prime the last condition be frugal or be doomed
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