Wedding Rites

The small streets of Windsor
are sparkling today
it helps that the homeless
were moved on their way

Union flags limp overhead –
bought online for thirty quid –
as the old
the young
the poor
the ill
wait patiently –
right until

The rich
the landed
the toffs
the Dukes
pass them by –
sat high –
so aloof

Then the roads
are re-opened to all –
the returning beggars
lay out their stalls

Once more in England
there’s a tale to tell –
How a town was reduced
to a right royal hell.

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

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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?

The Tower

Shaken in six mill’ sieves,
for identification purposes,
not through the eye of a needle,
each remnant of life, of bone,
of those residents still there,
is trowelled, gathered, bagged,
by kneeling men and women;
detectives in the cooled tower,
still finding those, the remained.