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I had occasion to go to court a while back relating to an SORN offence It appears that if your near neighbour hangs onto the vehicle registration document for which you are waiting then you are obligated using ESP or similar device to divine that the slip at the bottom [which bears no such info] requires you to go to the post office and fill out or otherwise make a SORN declaration - a Sorn declaration is basically a round about way of accusing you of using your vehicle on the road without recourse to proving that you actually have [and as such probably violates the Human rights act of presumption of innocence] either way i happened to tax the vehicle as soon as said neighbour remembered they had it - having phoned the DVLA twice beforehand to assure me they'd posted it If all this is long winded it merely sets the scene for what happened next as i think i met the modern equivalent of the hanging judge in a local magistrates court. I went with a friend who was rather irrationally [for a normally austere middle aged person] incensed by all that happened and thus realising that some thing had gone radically wrong in our judicial system and more particularly with this element of it I decided to kill the c**t in an abstract sort of way .... either way i thought this would be an appropriate poem to put on and read at Rrrants do over at the Goat in Sopwell Lane and modified it slightly

Book 101 is intended to be a collection of poems by Mike Burr intended as a xmas 2008 present for his mother with no thematic precept.

Judge [revision 1]

i wake one eye half open to see that here the riddy is astern and an evil gloom descending upon the valley of the colne as the vehemence of poverty runs from the marshy shores upland be sure then that a social tide is on the upturn and the unlikely spectre of revolution rising from its mire pools and estates terse and straining its muscled tension is sullenly priming its devices i see the ghost of heads and arms smuggling silent guns across the dismal morning borders a fog runs lightly between sanity and the tenement blocks a precursor and a portent among the cement of landscape of what will become a violent rebellion born from the drug littered stairwells and damp alleys of fermenting ill and discontent in these depression times and will overthrows the outmoded or stupid lays of order an upheaving of the lard and the slick and the political fuck a bromidal an ammonial cleansing of those concrete sores there is a particular judge a blubbery bellied jelly of a man with a spiteful disdain that goes beyond callous in his corrupt assuation and decree and its arse licking furthering of the interests of the state ive seen the colour of its tongue i know where he lives and as a few and i round the house i can see him half running, limp waddling panting and wailing small no-nos as i aim my hand gun first i shoot him in the leg which half snaps he is lying on the floor his wet squid like face beating and frantic he is twisting in the slow catherine wheel of panic i am handed a baseball bat i slowly beat him with the long swing of vitriol some might call revenge taking as much pleasure in the feel of each dull thump as in the great alive elation of the kill it is soon to be his hands a pulp his arms trashed and legs are cracked matted misshapen to his trousers but not his head i want him to feel the final moment i want him to be the symbol torch and flame i set him alight we meant to use the petrol as furnace for the larger houses here in Cassiobury Park but this is a personal emblem and it is a truly worthy goodbye the charring pain seared grotesque across his forid face and the ritual of the smoke and his blistered eruption makes a disgusting but apt pall to his bigoted judgement his fat wet lips still twitching and his eyes open one burned toasted like a droll wink dedicated to Thursday 29th Nov

About…

Judge [revision 1]

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