Hyde Road, Manchester

Malpas Street was assailed
in a sustained assault
once the Neo Liberals
took this city and our ports

The remaining red terraces
of parallel-lived lives
were flattened by the politics
and sold short by Tory lies

The bus rolls so slowly
cross the holes along Hyde Road
then past the brick-built islands
of those lost industrial gods

Down to the church of football
I pass unlit social housing
No one scrubs their doorstep
now we right swipe on our devices

 

 

 

May’s Britain

In this hushed-up country
of scandalous lies
where powerful classes
ensure their future is fine

we fall asleep in ignorance
and wake to right wing views

we lie to our scared children
that school will solve it all

we saunter down the aisle
in the Church of Endless Shops

we repeat our marriage vows
to those retail uber gods

we book our family holiday
to escape this treadmill life

we load the long-leased burden
and pray there’ll be wifi

In this hushed-up country
we are down on our knees
Here powerful classes
steal whatever they please

#CPC17

#cpc17.png

Tossers, tossers,
tossers in suits,
groomed to an inch
of their Tory blue roots.

A lanyard, a sneer,
to let them in,
so the conference starts
and cock-sucking begins:

Motions are raised
in the near-empty hall,
as the screens are filled
by the faces of fools.

They bay for Boris,
pray to lose May,
pull knives out for Gove,
but no big beasts today.

They’ll ship in the blue rinses
on a new battle bus
this one will read:
‘You plebs are now fucked’.


[Poem 865]

Trust Nobody

All politicians are liars,
the priests are hypocrites,
those estate agents sell boxes
to meet their sales targets.

Some doctors can’t be trusted,
as your dentist drills for gold,
the copper’s lot is valuable,
cells ready to be sold.

Kick the state-aid scroungers,
the devious thieves of pounds,
rip those leeches from the books
and claim the moral ground.

Austerity and denial
are the liars’ superior sneer,
as our kids fare worse than us
with their future full of fear.

Take on the Tory values
of reduction and rebuke,
give those holders of our fate
a grip they’ll not reduce:

And in a year we will hear
the sound of ten years gone,
the birthing screams of Austerity
will be the loudest ones.

As our kids reboot this island,
set adrift by Brexiteers,
they may ask of us, the voters,
how did it come to this?

New Broom

She’ll not be swept back
to Downing Street,
her election broom snapped
under the weight;

the Tories will seek
‘a strong and stable’ hand,
to pick up the broom
and lead these lands.

For now she will clean
without the right tools,
whilst Boris and Rudd
agree which of them rules.

The UK untidy,
until the new cleaner sweeps,
austerity to continue
because brooms aren’t cheap.

#GE2017

There will be a ballot
with outcomes unknown,
but the resulting state
could be one that’ll harm,
it may finally remove
the vestiges of pride
which were the first choice
of the winning side,
that construction of faith,
more real than dead Gods,
off socialist embers
fired after the war.

When you make your mark
it will determine the fate
of the care of your family,
the future price paid.
Each ballot with a cross,
is a kiss for the carers,
a token of love,
for the state which will keep us.
Or leave it, don’t bother,
make a mark for the rich,
and let them get fat
on the illness of kids;
let them turn profits
on dementia, new business,
let them trade shares
in your family’s sickness.

Who the F*ck is Nick Timothy?

Who is Nick Timothy?
Do you give a toss?
He’s the quiet one –
St Theresa’s soft voice.

Almost Deputy PM,
with no vote or mandate,
he’ll re-draw Conservatism,
tracing over the Left;

aided by Fiona,
the Queen of Press Passes,
but Nick wears the boots,
‘cos he likes to kick arses.

[Published here on The Dangerous Globe]

Miracle on Downing Street

St. Theresa knows
what is good for us,
‘Hallelujahs’ you sing,
The Mail prints the chorus.

She cleans the feet
of the blessed rich,
with her giving grip
on their privatised bits:

She’s touched The Trump,
held the hand of ‘God’,
and now she is saying:
‘Come and buy the lot!’

And on Election Day,
perhaps in 2022,
when she’s won again,
against the too few,

you might turn round,
look back on this time,
and regret the miracles
you left behind:

the medicine, the doctors,
the freedom to move,
the care for the elderly,
the schools improved,

the future for kids,
ours without privilege,
the rights we had –
to stand up ‘n still rage.

When the state that blessed us
is sold for ‘our good’,
you’ll have no one to trust,
‘cept St. Theresa’s rich gods.