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. 
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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. 

The Visitor.

I talk gibberish, waiting for the metallic red
shadow to turn in the crook
of the road. Ruddy cheeks and
long strides towards the door.

An outstretched hand from prior
decades clasped around my own.
Boyish intrigue replaced
with a firm grip.

Insular and small I would be placed on a knee
and bob up and down and up and down.
Smiles knocked off with glasses and chubby
fingers smudging against lenses.

I contort my hands into those of a magician.
Copying the gentle fist bump when your thumb is replaced with
fresh air. Again, again. Where does the thumb go?

You’ve got my nose. Taken to the car I imagine.
I scamper towards and anxiety is replaced with
A mint humbug. I put it in my mouth,
feel the sickly sweetness burst
into butter and sticky lips.

I hold out my hand for more
and receive a red lolly. Stick bent
and candy sweetness leaking under
cellophane.

I wave good bye. Limp hand
animated under duress. And there
it is. Another year.

Brigg stow to Bristol

Spinning around the a4044
the unholy fuck of Bristol highways
jumping lanes and lighting up the
average speed checks.

Still I trundle towards
left leaning sideroads
turning around where possible
and creaking through roundabouts
and over snaking junctions
and castigated discount megastores.

Poetry is motion, light
and choice words stretched
onto open roads. Gyrating through
underground overground anyground
carparks; leaking into shopping playgrounds
and squeaky lifts. Smells of varnish, clothes dye, cleaning
solution and cellophane strip misconception.
‘Its bloody nice here’

Records spin, notes permeating with
old beats, complimenting penny whistles
and the thwack of opening umbrellas, jostling
shoulders and heavy footsteps.

This city of mine, grand and altogether
the product of 21st century jizm and archaic
cathedral hyperbole. This City of ours, hours flooding
to days and weeks to years.

Gnarl.

This is the year of poor minds,
pockets weighted to the sides of
their legs; rich in metal.
This year when those sick from
domination give little explantion of where they’ve been but gloat in
where they’re going.
They’re stuck near the top. Effortless and dirty-slick. Icarus with teflon wings
until a fireball of beauty and righteousness cascades to cull ill Karma.
Sexual; unforgiving. Old Ic’ is stingy.
Stingily absorbing televisioned trash and clapping adverts
dribbling semen and piss and shit onto unseasoned sofa’s,
forsaking friends until they’re regained with compliments
fat from sycophantic destiny…

Pt. 2 ————————————-

This is the year when the rich in mind get poorer in pockets,
and dreams.
Capitalism gains devout hum-drum broadsheet spenders and children are born into
obese and fleshy-selfish narcissistic ideals.
The poetry bleeds out from a single stab wound,
blood lapping at the entry of chilled Silver & Gold. Where internal bleeding is

stifled but rages; breaching flesh and soul. Trickling slowly towards

commercial ventures.

The year of 2013.