I wonder what it will be like to be 55. 

Each face will be known in time, relations and relationships formed

through viral videos, HD blossom punching through screens

to form a pink crust on smiling faces.

Steady lines etched on taut skin, (spiralling from 1999 to 2016

and onwards) until the inkings blur and stretch

foreshadowing wrinkles of youth.

Aristocratic histories, doling out death with a flick of the wrist

replaced with caustic app swiping and lifelong settlements.

Too busy being shadowed with electric lighting

to thumb laughter lines or pinch hair between teeth

and happy with flaccid VR, the modern person loses touch

with relations and relationships formed.

Food Bank. 

I offer my deposit with grievance,

flat palmed and open
I pay my mortgage with
tinned veg and harvest fruit.

My shoulder holds up twenty-seven
storeys, neediness an opiate
for penthouse no-faces. 
Brothers and sisters clasp
digits onto children’s necks
applying pressure. 

Vaults, dusty and grey
offer tin and wicker. 
Gold, silver and bronze
spent an eternity ago
on drinks with lunch
and white powder nasal spray
for clients. 

I spend my macaroni and cheese,
cylindrically sloshed on one
more days life. Eagerly anticipating
the dilution of the blue wave. 

1918 and all that. 

All those years ago I shook

off student apathy, joined
my friend and marched. 
We marched in solidarity,
joining hands and minds
fist pumping in the same
money grabbing direction. 
I think of our fresh faces
thrown by the three wise men
from polling booth number one
into number two. We thought we
could smudge yellow paint in through
the letter box at number ten. 
We did but our fingers became trapped
and the yellow mixed with the blue
not making green. 
Later I wondered whether we did
anything at all, whether that piece
of paper fell away behind a dusty cabinet
from 1979. 
Systematically I think
we’ll just not vote for the same faces 
and the amalgamation of
Blueredorangegreenyellowpurple
We’ll tell them we aren’t happy. 
Eventually. 

N.W.O

We trade in handshakes
of ghostly currency.
Spectres melting into
leather office chairs,
£1000 shoes propped up,
hard-heel tapping mahogany.
99% scrabbling at chicken-feed
pinching news items between their fingers,
screens harbouring wipeable perspiration,
when long before it disappeared,
between pages of law and righteousness.

We’re told its empty:
The comfort of the Euro feels
nothing like the £’ing of heart
against heart with an embrace.
But clammy and desperate we
compete to live for techno-respite,
sharing our global position
through social media machines
and laughing at funny tidbits;
something to disengage the brain
when you start wondering why
your bank account haemorrhages,
and your neighbour has two new cars.

We trade in misinformation,
skulduggery to chug
the oil and gentle fucking
of the 1%.
£6 shoes propped up
against IKEA furniture
and the age old question
of free-will.

CLICK-BAIT

With every chafed step

a portfolio of struggle is formed,
salutes and whoops,
phone flashes and hand slapping. 
Hyperbolic fissures of a gross
‘Well-done’ and the clamouring
to hook in new feeders. 
‘You won’t believe what she did
with her tits’,
‘#6 is an absolute doozy, you have to see this’. 
Well aware that I’m one in one-
thousand to pound through
to #6, it’s the sudden hankering
for online bingo 
and the spiral through slideshows
that concerns me most.