We were not taught
how to erase –
how best to rub out –
how to remove errors –
instead – we were told to
Put a line through it
Those eye-ruled
mistakes –
our slight aberrations
in our cobbled
curriculum
They were honest flaws
Being seen to fail
won gold stars
against your name
on that constant chart
of
stuck rewards
Now we suffer
others’ comments –
sickly – green-ish –
spilt on social media
We are ink-stained
No dabs of blotting paper
Those mob-mindful
leaders –
your haters –
your righteous orators
have raised
their volume to that
once of The Left
They mop up swathes
of disaffected souls
in insolent heartlands
by underhand sales
of hope on Amazon
Post to Facebook your prizes
And Left-Wing resentments
seem to threaten more
than resolve
as old moderations are now
spoken of as if weaknesses
in politics – else whipped
Extreme measures
are needed
Politics is now a
vomiting disease
I contemplate
setting it all to
Off
(even my
rum scuttle of thoughts
from toils)
By cutting connections
to swealing news
on my device
By undoing clicks
to remove agitation
and find a hermitage –
perhaps a bolted
space
with my tumbler locks
We cannot blunt their knives
We cannot nullify politicians
of any kind –
they who
make us into banshees
and howl monkeys
When that switch
is flicked
you will not hear me
We want to be heard –
us mutterers – we discontents
who can mussitate
I told you so –
because our righteousness
is so bloody close to Godliness
But we do not carry confidences
in such overbearing entities
and we would rather
leave prayers to those humbled
souls who kneel before altars
with their bare-faced soles
We malcontents will feed
in fast flowing streams
until they run with our blood –
torrents drip-drip-dripped
from our nail-hammered
word-wrung hands
Pinned up and posted –
just another Jesus Christ
expletive – re-fucking-tweeted
There are no greater spurs to human indecency
than cheap shortcuts to wealth
be they lotteries or lies – they are muted calls
to hard work – to tilth
Plough blades rub to blunt – our ground is dry –
our blacksmith has gone
No more steady blows – that loss of his honest hammer
has left his anvil to ring with rust
Old fixed courses of love are smudged in your soft hands
on your quick-to-hold screen
where you advertise yourself to an online world of touches –
you’d resist them if in public
As if everything is circumvented by launches and innovations
as if every previous minute
of humanity is evenly compressed – every way is left to be forgotten
Everyone just wants to be rich
Larner feared removal
of the scent of people
in crowded wiki articles
Dumb grazing animals
hardly move from hoof to hoof
with their heads down
At this bar
three men sit
before chemical beer
misdirected and under-lit
Tommy Robinson spits
as poor aims are raised
by squaddies at politicians
and three men take turns
to buy another Peroni
without exchanging words
We know everything
by what we read and watch
whilst bent to scent-free pastures
We are looking about
at a screen-stuck-to
silvered generation
of eye-glued viewers
in trawl-warmed hands
Those old phone huggers
sit logged in to online’s
click-bait refuge
of tittle-tattle and gossip
and foreign muckiness
under scrolled fingering
for rolled eyes of delight
and instant connectedness
to others’ risen anger
Those mobile surfers ride
on a curl of upper lips
and toothless sneers –
set high by published lies
We travel sober through London Bridge – below
brick arches – on roads cowered by glassy heights –
Our cabbie blasts bent-to-smartphone bodies
back from near-hits on red-man crossings –
it seems that Londoners have now forgotten
how to see the threats beyond their implements –
We now live hand-to-eye – no longer hand-to-mouth –
no shape-to-spoken words – now embedded emojis spout –
We briefly find speed over the river crossing
and then turn left through the gold standard of cheats –
of fund managers – of clerics – of bankers and white Gods –
where every seat and bench in the low sun is arse-taken –
Thursday lunchtime is the dress rehearsal for Friday excess
behind St Paul’s – and in the eateries of Clerkenwell –
in the stained and new cafes – at exotic roadside pop-ups
and in smoke-free pubs until ten o’clock that night –
Our ride is time travel and a belching reminder that
we are in a handcart to hell – instead of the Underground
Being eighteen in 1982
was easier than in 2018 –
we had less stuff to plug in –
sniping critics were blocked
by the turn of a front door key
and loud parents muted by
the stereo being set to ten
Our whole past was aligned
spine out – but not in public –
on the overhead shelves –
bound in worn LP sleeves
to which we returned on those
solemn dead-end Sundays –
before it was switched on
“It’s .. trying to construct a society around production
for need .. not .. for profit .. meeting people’s needs”
I half-quote Tony Benn
Once I was in his audience whilst back home
my father rebuffed Wedgie-bloody-Benn with
his gruff-spoken shun about the Leftie-in-a-suit –
Benn spoke without limits at the Co-operative Hall
way back in the slush-grey twentieth century
of do-not-touch candles and knitted gloves
in an endless civil war of fists and banners
across slag battlefields far removed from us
Face-to-face politic was the free-to-use fuel
against factory shut-downs and mounting job losses
“(Thatcher) did make war on a lot of people in Britain,
and I don’t think it helped our society”
Now we trade insults over sofa-space distances –
such hate we would not dare to excrete out there in public –
no loud enough complaints about neighbours’
ached-stomachs with day-end hunger –
not of zero-hour contracts worth near to nothing –
or the basic provisions of dignity and stability
Instead – we lament the kiss of a celebrity –
caught on camera – going viral like herpes
This land is cut open under smartphone blades –
those knives blunt voices which once were our aides
