You’re supposed to be our saviour,
fighting things that need attention,
instead you’re killing innocent people,
Girls, men and children.
You’re giving kids asbos
for smoking their green
but you can’t say you haven’t been there,
it’s something we’ve all seen.
You disrupt our streets
with your orders and conduct.
Why aren’t the people’s voices in charge?
This so called government is corrupt!
Growing up in a local school
taught me no lies,
that the law is restricting us
I have never been at anyone’s beck and call,
I will tug no lock nor doff my trilby to no one,
I will admire in great abundance but I will not lick your arse clean
nor allow you to make me feel like I am worthless;
for I am not your whipping boy.
I place the smoky glass in front of me as I wish it to tempt me,
inside I want it to take me to a place where
you cannot reach me, because the last thing I want
Concrete Dutch Tulips are all the rage in the city by the river
as they trade for increasing vast fortunes
that feed the bloated economy figure, warts popping pus
and oozing, squeezing blood all over the dust potted road.
The second city of Empire, the anti-capital, the gateway
to a new world, has more and more concrete tulips
than is healthy as the modern bubble shimmers
in the March sun and speculators look for another
square block in which tulips will thrive.
Speculating on a future that could change with a slip of a pen
You are my guide, from the womb to the soil in which
my cremated remains will hug and embrace with the same deep thought
as when I was a child in which you were my teacher,
when I was the teenage boy in whose arms I wanted to hold you with
and kiss you gently,
to the middle aged man in which I have become
and in which you are the one I strive
to be equal to, you are my guide.
From the grandmother with unseen feminist principals,
When I was young, love was a different concept to what it is now.
I once laid down in the grass by Brill Hill ready to tell you
how much I loved you , to declare at the top of my voice
to the clouds streaming past in military order, clean as a whistle, that I
truly could not imagine life without you and not realising for a single minute
as we both sat there, the grass staining our arses
through the cheap childish clothes we wore, breathless and steaming
It used to be so easy to dream of running away,
to throw in the towel and become forgotten quickly in one day.
Leave all behind and always start a new
be a vagabond, a tramp in new clothing, with no expectation from anyone
because they hadn’t got used to you.
Just turn up in a different town one day,
the fresh faced boy on the street, the accent from far away.
Nobody gave a damn because they had no idea,
but they gave a damn when I could not fit in, a ragged detestable man
We’ve all had that weasel on our backs at one time or another
but perhaps we haven’t dealt with it as gracefully
as a Woodpecker in flight.
This predator senses opportunity and attacks for gain
by offering only a platitude and the empty smile
and nothing else in return.
Whereas the badger, noble creature of the forest floor, set in its ways
and looking for all the world as a master of ethnic equality, sees the situation
in black and white and fights back against the weasel, but will probably
She rang me in the middle of the night, speech slightly slurred,
scurried, slow drawled, concerned and with heavy patience address.
“I worry about you, I believe you will write yourself to death
one dank and dark December day.”
The hint of concern overflowing and verging on future grief
overwhelmed me briefly and
I paused for thought, after all the hour had not long since departed
three, half a pall bearing team I thought wildly with a wry grin,
I wonder where the other half went, perhaps to make sandwiches, after all
With the pleasantries over, the argument started in earnest
and February shook its small but well rounded
fist at the other eleven members
of the council and stated his intent to see equality achieved that day.
“I still don’t understand why I cannot at least be thirty days long…!”
He boomed in a winter foamed echoing voice
which shook snow from the steadfast Oak and which drifted in a flurry
on to the table carved from a fallen Willow and in which
August exclaimed a serious dislike for.
The cold of the nights,
The chill of the wind,
Purple lips
Slipping out beautiful sins
The curses at the sky
Replying to its bitter sweet lies
As society hits her with a label
“The local lunatic” or “mentally unstable”
The howls at the moon
Crying what do I do
I’ve been stranded on this world for two decades
I just want my body to disintegrate
Society ate everyone’s brain
The Internet,
Consumerism,
It’s driving us insane