The Rape of Britain

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Between the fall of the Berlin Wall
And collapse of the World Trade Center
We lived our post-historical lives
In a haze of drugs and musical genres:
A perpetuated adolescence
Whose end we never thought to hurry.
O what did we worry ourselves about
In the days when we had time to worry?

Who welcomed home the Prodigal Son
In time to crown the People’s Princess,
Rode shotgun in the War on Terror’s
Holy coalition for oil and gas?
They rubbed our noses in diversity
While sipping French wines on Upper Street,
Tarred British workers as drunken racists
For refusing to welcome our defeat.

So they bombed and stabbed and tried to kill us
As we danced through the new Millennium
In trains and buses and children’s concerts
For twenty years, now, of terrorism;
Then told us the death of capitalism
Could be averted — conveniently —
By twenty years of cuts to public spending
And the biggest bailout in history.

This was soon surpassed (‘for the greater good’)
By lockdown of the world economy,
Sold to us as containing a virus
With influenza’s rate of fatality.
Masked marionettes who for two years
Were nudged and needled into self-confinement,
What resistance could we expect to mount
To our demographic replacement?

Now our every memory of the past
Is denounced by those who were not there
And even more loudly by those who were
For fear of fuelling our present despair;
And our only permitted history
Is collective guilt for an imagined crime
Condemned interminably by the still wind
That holds us eternally in this time.

A hundred years since Britain’s first decline,
The fall into our present disgrace,
Though long in the planning, is just begun
And far from complete: for our future fate
Will be forged by what’s left of our courage
When the British stop saying we’re sorry.
O what do we not worry about now
When there’s no time left in which to worry?

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If the beliefs we held brought us to this end,
To what use and for whom did we hold them?
If we hold them now in the light of hindsight
Like murderous daggers brought from the place
Where the crimes were committed while we slept
For eighty years of unbroken dreaming,
What will we see through the translucence of blood
In the fingerprint whorls left on their handles?
On whose drugged corpses were the blades wiped clean
By the perpetrators of the bloody deeds?
And who knocks now at the gate of our past
As we waken to the creep of tomorrow?

Through the lens of a lifetime I look back
At what started before I was born
In the Sixties Cultural Revolution,
When everything we were raised to admire
Sowed seeds of hatred of our nation
In the Children of the Revolution,
By those who heard songs of love and peace
In the caste system of Hinduism;
Found renunciation of Western desires
In Buddhism’s threat of reincarnation;
Read tales of universal brotherhood
In Islam’s book of conquest and submission;
Turned White courtesy into inhibition
And Black violence into Libération —
Anything but the rationality,
The desire for freedom and equality
In the heart of European civilisation,
Which, if only in principle, remain,
Principles peculiar to the West.

In place of which, adolescent rebellion,
Aggrandised as a political stance
Normalised by protest against Vietnam,
(Once politics had thawed to religion)
Fanned the rising flames of opposition
To Western wars in the Middle East,
In the Persian Gulf and Afghanistan,
Iraq, Syria, Libya and Gaza.
And with each new war a new generation
Was indoctrinated to identify
With the victims of Western aggression —
Which now, internalised, included us:
The self-loathing of middle-class liberals
Updated for our conquest from within
By the theoreticians of our decline.
Post-colonialism to white privilege,
Feminism to male transvestism,
Gay liberation to child mutilation,
Environmentalism to immiseration,
Multiculturalism to ethnocide,
Political correctness to censored speech
And socialism to Woke — together
Have shamed our children into embracing
Authoritarian rule, misogynist
Ideologies and new technologies
For our surveillance and punishment.
Did we use similar words to mean
Different things, or were we merely lying?

The more antithetical these were
To our — ostensibly liberal — values,
The more they nurtured hatred of ourselves
In five generations of the West.
A programme deliberate and ongoing,
The consequences were immediate.
By the early Nineteen-Seventies
Birth rates in Western states had fallen
For the first time in our histories
Below what was necessary, and still is,
To replace the dead who lived before us,
And have continued to fall ever since.
Fifty years later we are enduring
The progressive genocide of a race
Too cowed to save itself from extinction
By the accusation of a single word.

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Like finding the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
Scattered across an abandoned house, and for which
The box-lid painted with the completed picture
Is lost forever, and fitting them together
From my memory of how it looked long ago,
I try to restore my nation. And with each piece
That falls into place, the present feels more unreal,
More like the dream from which I’m trying to awaken
To a still possible image of the future.

My head, once the playground of unpunished pleasures,
Is now the purgatory of my waking day,
Which only sleep or inebriation quenches;
And every moment of happiness must be paid
With months of usurious misery. Life
No longer adds up. The angels of accountancy
Have tipped the world’s scales too heavily against me,
And I want to get off. But where? Oh, anywhere,
Anywhere, so long as it’s out of this world!

And so I make this vow of silence, which is not
A renunciation of speech but a promise
To undertake an internal and eternal speech
With myself — to be, in silent words, a poet.
For what is poetry but talking to oneself
In the hope that someone else is listening?
Or, as in a dream, when the lions begin
To tear your sleeping flesh to pieces, and you know,
Even while dreaming, that it’s time to wake up.

Dark thoughts are heavy thoughts, and so my head hangs down
Heavy on my spine, shadowing these pages
With the awakening to our final defeat.
For no wooded valley, no matter how lovely
On that missing piece, will not be lost forever
Beneath a mosque or motorway newly-laid
Across fields where our ancestors fought and died
To defend our country with lives they sacrificed
For a generation that never learned to fight.

But it’s too late for death, and the only exit,
After the Starbucks and the European Union,
Is on the slip road to our downfall — of our race,
Of our culture and of our civilisation.
The painting of the trees invites me to lie down
And feel the roots and acorns deep beneath the ground;
But the ancient woodlands can never be restored,
And outside my window the battle still rages,
The rape of Britain by the barbarian hordes.

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My nation is under attack.
And I am too, and those I love,
My wife, the children I never had
And those few friends I still have,
My compatriots, my people,
My race — all are under attack.
First, from peoples we do not know
And never asked to, forced on us
Without our consent or knowledge
By those for whom we never voted.
Second, from those born among us
But who live on us like parasites
In houses that were built for us
And with the wealth of our labour.
Third, from those whose parents looked like ours
But who were educated
In their youth to betray their own kind
For foreign allegiances.
And, finally, behind all these,
We are under attack from those
Who, against our will and wishes,
Rule over us with the powers
Of a state for which we have paid
With every pay cheque and tax rise
And which binds us now like a chain
That tightens, with each passing day,
Around our necks, constricting our breath
And silencing our cries for help.

And every day that passes brings
Another stabbing, another rape
Another murder. Atrocities
That once would have been front-page news
For a month, and be remembered
For years of mourning, are forgotten
Now with each new atrocity.
The British children collected
From their schools by Muslim rape gangs,
Handed back after treatment
By the local clinic, called liars
By social services, prostitutes
By the press, trafficked in cages
Across Britain with the knowledge
Of British councils and under
The protection of British police:
Supplanted by the children killed
By a Rwandan terrorist
Trained by an Al-Qaeda manual
To kill, by every means, as many
British people as possible.
Or the handcuffed hands of a boy
Stabbed by a Sikh immigrant
Permitted, under UK law,
To carry a ‘religious’ knife,
And who drowned in his own blood
Under arrest by British police
On the word of his murderer:
Supplanted by the bloody head
Of the man butchered in Belfast
To screams of ‘Allahu Akbar!’
By a Sudanese ‘refugee’
Granted leave to remain in Britain
By a foreign Home Secretary
Come from a foreign country.
And the woman raped on a beach
By three Muslim asylum seekers
Housed in a hotel in Brighton
At the British taxpayer’s expense:
Supplanted, inevitably,
By tomorrow’s bloody offence,
Which each of us awaits, resigned
In expectation of its commission.

O Britons, who sit drinking in
The sun among our murderers
Who serve us from the shops in which
They queue to rape our daughters,
By what punishments could we avenge
The crimes against our people?
What sacrifice is there to purge
Our indelible guilt and shame?
If not with justice in our hands,
How can we face our children?
And how, if not from blood and soil,
Will our nation be born again?
Though these verses of mine send out
Courageous men to fight in vain,
I will not hold their portent back:
In our country, in our cities,
In our neighbourhoods, in our homes,
The British are under attack.

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This morning, the cool breeze of an English summer
Blew through my opened window, then a gust of rain;
For nothing’s fair as what is free. This reminder:
Though the nation’s in ruins, hills and rivers remain.

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Appearance is not the expression of self,
The self externalised, made manifest
In avant-garde hats on degenerate heads
Drinking Whisky Sour with a vegan egg;
Is not the glass in which the components
Of a nation are mixed, and in which we
Are dissolved through many generations
In the muddy brown of muddied waters
To which the child’s watercolour tray
Is reduced by tears of unsuppressed rage.
No, for this is not what appears of us
In the picture gallery of our grave.
But trapped in individual consciousness,
Which is the body awakened to the world
Of other embodied consciousnesses,
Appearance is the primitive face
Of a people united by their race,
Which is the collective consciousness
Of a language, a history, a culture
And the soil in which they are nurtured.

And only by our deeds can we hope
To restore this ancient husbandry,
Introduce a richer hue or reveal
A lost colour, which runs far deeper
Than the constituted robe of appearance.
And our deeds are the sum of everything
We do and say: for speech is the deed
Announced, the deed demanded or proclaimed,
Which includes how we respond to crises
Whether historical or everyday:
A war in the Ukraine or an attack
On a train in Cambridgeshire, late one evening
After work; or how we raise our children
And how we care for our parents, and how
We protect our women; which is not only
In the care or lack of it but also
In the contents of our caring, the content
Of our loves, not only for wife and child but also
Love for our country, and for its people,
And for its land, and for their survival.

For this is the cup in which our life is mixed
Without dissolution into the mud
From which the colours of earth are extracted,
But refined by the labour of generations
Into a harmonious composition
Which is the culture of a people
And the story of its cultivation,
With its own unique colour, shades and tones
With which a nation’s portrait is painted
From generation to generation,
Renewing the old, restoring the faded,
Tilling the soil of a fallow field,
Sowing the seedbed for new creation,
Rose and daffodil, shamrock and thistle,
But always the same, the same new people.
By this, and by nothing else, will our deeds
Find their measure, for there is no other
Measure than the country of our deeds
And the time of their doing, here and now,
In Britain at the time of her dying.