To Be English

[tectak]

Hi hes,
very good to see real workshopping. I lob in my ancestral sceptres worth.
Tectak
Third edit:
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire, this is debatable over a fine port. I don't mean to be facetious but commenting on the veracity of what is after all, a poetically disguised opinion does necessitate an examination if what is being said/suggested/implied. Here, you make the strange point that being English (a nationality) is to be a shadow. Avoiding the opinion route, this is still shaky. Though wordy, I cannot but believe that what you are nearly saying is " To be an Englishman is to live in the shadow of an Empire" . The reason I pull on the reins is that however you say it, the metaphor (?) disconnects immediately when the triple-point is reached. At once English, a shadow and (depressed grass?) brown grass. No to this. It DOES need clarifying
the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down. Perhaps the castle you refer to (but do not), though not to any ruined castles I have seen. Not a general enough point to be a generalisation

Our lords and ladies,
sacred relics meant to be admired but nothing else,
now flash their artifacts, for a price,
a shallow attempt at brotherhood,
while their suits of armour,
coats of arms, history of oppression,
crumble beneath them
as sand through an old man's fist. ...but returning to opinion for a moment, I think that to bestow holiness on the aristocracy is misguided...yet I can see your pique. The landed gentry are now shown as struggling class, schadenfreude all round, who must prostitute their virtues (possessions and personnas) to survive. I think you could work up a little more outrage here, you are almost sorry for them. Is that your intent?

Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors,
revealing their plunder at last to the unwashed hordes, commas needed after plunder and last...or you will dash it ill-advisedly!
to us peasants, us cretins, with our cameras Unless you are in character it really should be "we" not "us"
and fashionable shirts. Hmmm. Well, I guess that speak for yourself is the obvious comment so I won't make it This stanza is too brazenly biased and tips bile into the gruel far too suddenly. Your case is strongly seasoned but needs to be slowly simmered to extract all the flavour. Perhaps consider placing this stanza nearer the end?

The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my two pound ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces. Yes to this. Much to like...but not mopey, guffaw or your incredibly weighty ice cream! One ninety-nine would clarify. I think that's what they cost at Longleat

The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism", This is vitriolic enough but "beneath a pretence" is not crystal clear...and it rankles.
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become. Getting preachy and possibly opinionated before the fact...in my opinion

With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our Lordship's bonesAwkward structure here but it is concommitent on the punctuation shower in the next lines
the path towards enlightenment, Stop here. This is a sentence.
where the worthless - race, class, "Britishness" - Begin this line pensively. "Here, the worthless--race, class, british(ness?)--ARE replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul, and death"...though I have no idea what the hell it means
is replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul, and death,
that truly united kingdom. I don't normally do this but are you bigotted authoritatively enough to carry this diatribe off? Do you need to be?
Best,
tectak

[b]Second edit:
To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.

Our lords and ladies,
once kept from the public like sacred relics -
meant to be admired but nothing else,
are flashing their artifacts at us, for a price,
in a shallow attempt at siblinghood.
They are one with their suits of armour,
their coats of arms, their history of oppression,
crumbling beneath them
as sand through an old man's feeble grasp.

Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors
to the unwashed hordes, revealing their plunder at last
to us peasants, us cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.

The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £2 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.

The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.

With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment,
where the worthless - race, class, "Britishness" -
is replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul,
and death, that truly united kingdom.

First edit:
"I've got it now. I have to say - just look at these bloody rocks - "This a good place," and everyone laughs till the tears come." - Graham Greene, The Comedians

To be English is to be the shadow of an Empire,
or the depressed brown grass that remains
when a castle has been torn down.

Our lords and ladies,
once kept from public view like sacred relics
meant to be admired but nothing else,
are flashing their artifacts at us, for a price,
in a shallow attempt at faux-siblinghood.
They are one with their suits of armour,
their coats of arms, their history of oppression,
crumbling beneath them
as sand through a baby's fist.

Lady Sue and Lord Reggie are opening their doors
to the unwashed multitudes, revealing their relics at last
to us peasants, us cretins, with our cameras
and fashionable shirts.

The slow death of the aristocracy,
who bathed their whores in Ireland's blood
and clothed them with its skin,
is a great comedy at which I guffaw
into my £2 ice cream,
while clutching a program
covered by their mopey faces.

The royals remain, beneath a pretence of "tourism",
courting grubby dollars and Euros
like the streetwalkers they've become.

With each dying spasm comes an ascendance,
a paving with our lordship's bones
the path towards enlightenment,
where the worthless - race, gender, "Britishness" -
is replaced by what marries us all: the impermanent soul,
and death, that truly united kingdom.