I am in awe of you,
though you can only tell
by my voice
when I congratulate you
on your performance;
a woman of absolutes
and fingers on keyboards
playing as if guided by a rock
and roll angel,
you are magnificent.
I watch you burn the keys,
so nimble, so impressive,
I have to hold my breath as you play
and create images
that I could never offer
to a world,
though blind, you are not unsighted
as in my paused breathing,
Many complex reasons:
Yet one simple truth,
you
do
not
care,
blinded by a singular hate,
you believe what is written
above the Polish camp,
that work, the noble cause
sets you free, robotic, automaton,
death squad in suits not uniforms,
you do not care,
let me repeat,
you do not give a singular flying fuck
for those you deem
surplus
to your vision of one percent ownership,
you do not care about the old
nestling in filth and squalor,
No, sorry,
can you prove you are a politician?
I know you say you are,
but you look too well.
I realise that as we are sat here discussing your future
you might be concerned that you
are worried about your benefits,
that being struck off the list
to be eligible for a huge salary, expenses,
wined and dined, your opinion sought,
a lucrative second job perhaps,
not quite what you said at our last meeting,
you didn’t declare that outside interest
did you,
It is like a horror film franchise,
Ester of The Shires, The Crimes of Ester,
The prolonged Career of Ester,
Ester’s Revenge, The (Hopeful) Political Death of Ester,
The Rising of Ester, Ester Strikes Back,
Ester…Ester…Ester 8, 9.10…
how the fuck
does she stay in contention,
how does she get parachuted in
to a position of responsibility,
to whom does she appeal,
the blue rinse, the deniers of compassion,
oh dear Ester, I thought we had seen
the very last of you, yet there you are, scuttling
Am I scared
of the prospect of World War Three
breaking out
in my lifetime, of course I am,
it is even more worrying
when my children
have not had the chance to even be grown up,
take the first plunge into the lie we call existence,
servitude, being told to pay to be scared,
to feel insignificant
when placed next to the well oiled machine,
the wreck and the reckless of something
that was extraordinary, watch them grow
sick in old age as they once mourned
I have never accepted populism,
it doesn’t sit right with me,
the urging of the crowd hollering,
cajoling each other to stand and be seen
to stand, to whoop and proclaim
to the highest authority, I cheered,
see me applaud, see me take down those
whose smiles are not as wide as mine,
see me ridicule them, see me being authorative,
see me go down the route of guided fascism
when my trained and rehearsed words
in the ears of those who I quite obviously fancy,
She told me she was O.K.
and all I could do was believe her.
I could see the gentle alarm in her eyes
as she moved in
to give me a hug, she told me she was alright,
that this was a small thing, a simple job
for the Doctor to take of, that my worries
for her were, obviously,
quite natural but nevertheless
one born out of close bonds
and soldering on,
such is her way, such is the love
that I have for her
I long for the leather underneath my backside again,
the long distance,
who cares where,
who knew when I would be back,
from moped speed
to the caress of a slight touch of velvet
underneath her painted shell like
heaving bottomless metal breast,
I miss the cool, the sweat,
the breeze cutting through my scarf,
my mouth covered in hijab of
Manchester City Blue
and the looks, disgruntled venom
of those behind steering wheels
and my two fingers sliding up
to meet their gaze…
I remember with absolute clarity
the moment you were born,
pacing outside like a father
from an old Pathe newsreel
or Ealing Comedy,
my life in black and white
as I chewed on nails,
too old fashioned to be
in the delivery suite,
was not the man’s place really.
I saw you very quickly, a blur,
a near painful remainder
that life can be cruel, fleeting, obstinate,
downright mean and spiteful,
as you were rushed past me
not breathing, blue,
you were leaving me destroyed.
She offered me a trip,
a walking holiday through
Yorkshire and Durham,
as it was before they re-arranged the map,
following desolate moorland, and dead feathered friends
whose life had been cut short, and water stout
and fast.
I attribute the offer as folly now,
for we were to stray not far from the river
towards its inevitable end as it lolled
into the North Sea somewhere round Redcar,
Hartlepool and Middleborough,
I should have known that she would lie
to me,
a holiday walking the river,