Starving Britain

John Pilger did this documentary about the deep poverty in England in 1975 yet it sounds eerily like today.

We have a zombie government , no essential leader Boris immersed in his own world and Rishi Sunak and Liz Truss are bickering about who can be the the most extreme right wing , it is bleak the Unions are striking and their leaders are speaking the most common sense , fuel poverty, food poverty , financial poverty there is no respite or chance due to eroding human rights to protest our way to government change , September 5th will bring no joy only more of the same and worse.

Queens New Clothes

a common girl

with barrow came

laden with folded cloth

the queen did look

and saw but nothing

yet advisors say

it is so beautiful

befitting for a millionaire

a common girl

seamstress sew perfect

said she could make

the most wonderful gown

a gown that those

on the other side

of palace walls

would admire and say

how radiant and divine

in chamber warmed

by embers of the poor

took this cloth

about her frame

and posed in mirror

that glittered gold

she did look divine

and decided on a procession

at the gates the dedicated few

who bought the mugs

and waved the flags

and sang anthem on

brainwashed breath

had heard of this

most wondourus gown

stepping from the carriage

the people

gasped in awe and horror

some began to cry

for this gown

the seamstress sewed

was of the flesh

of poor and subjugated

histories oppression an

awful stench

pinned together

with the bones of

crushed rebellion

the cheering stopped

more tears did flow

and a little boy

called out

she must go

In The Scheme Of Things

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans

laundry

in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few

 

copyyright Chris Lawrence

 

 

sucking in breath

sunburnt man

wretched and weary

beneath light and rain,

thunder smelled of goatskin

and musky aftershave,

steps taken like a drunk

falling on his own

sky crossed with jets

over the park

those travelling to another

countries sun to relax,

as slowly it ceased

shimmering haze

brought glare to eyes

worn with failing status

once he was among the rest

spewing from subway to curb

urgent and despairing

eager to get home,

that place with a yard

spill of ivy

trimmed lawn,

but that page had turned

fortune walked away like

everyone else,

yet his eyes sparkled

renewed vigor in his step,

he saw the torture he once

experienced,

now he belonged to no one

bank, employer, wife

even country,

he was an independent state

 

Bring Back the Then and Now

dollar bills ground fine

blowing grit into my eyes,

watering not out of discomfort

but sorrow,

as the green has paled

transparent and valueless,

existing as a memory

on magnetic strips,

worn by careless touch,

a presidents hand

is not divine enough to revive,

taxing shocks ripple the heart,

but now eyeing the wilderness

of vacant strip malls

and realtor bunted houses,

the burden heavier than sorrow

breaks the wage mule back,

sat roadside aimless

flickers of eyes do not register,

tomorrow comes,

and another one,

every journey has an end

yet this one i cannot see

just yet