What began in 79

when your home is not
a protective shelter to dignity and heart,
where government scythes away
public voices in favour of a few,
nervous rattle of doors
closing on opportunities
for those we should cherish,
disabled now disenfranchised
workless sanctioned and berated
for just existing,
statistics and targets
media fodder,
minimum wage hunter gatherers
chasing food bank trails
as rent arrears accumulate,
things are getting brighter
economy booming,
so some say
a cautious tale of cynicism
is needed to chew on this pill
of crushed realisations,
we have awoken
but not awake

written in response to the Conservatives taking victory in the elections and Cameron claiming power again

geometrics and some physical optics

he woke
he pissed
he smoked,
sat at the desk as others
before him,
heavy oak resonance,
with politicknife would cut policy
it had become about color,
the blue the yellow
strove to adjust to each other,
the red the green
so incompatible,
clarity was needed in misdirection
politicknife more palette than blade
scraped bluntly over canvas
to portray the country
texture and relief,
some of it muddied
stained like shit on a public toilet,
he spoke on TV
bright suited as a clown
body language and gestures
seen and felt as colors of betrayal
it was beyond functionalism
and wider knowledge
colors bled
every perception was not upheld,
people took to tree lined avenues
beneath autumn auburn,
held poster paint placards
chanting,
colors adjusted
all attitudes changed,
again at his desk
looking at errors of doctrine,
the religious confined to sunday
men of friday peace,
zealots who ranted for any god
they where unifying
he felt afraid,
colors that should never combine
on palette or canvas,
became alive,
betrayed inside government halls,
closed eyes so that the brightness
would not be visible,
humanities noose
had underwritten his future,
rainbows can be clutched
in eager hands and each strand
peeled apart
scattered
like shotgun pellets,
reflected refracted
no more distinction
it was over,
slashing the canvas
pissed over it
pouring gasoline
it burned,
defeat knew a cell door
and he was content,
within gray and bleak darkness
color could not and would not intrude
now he felt alive

angels at the pagan threshold

landscape seen by standing eye

on wind stripped rooftops edge,

answers pilgrims of nausea

fall as if from the depths of the sky,

horizon alone with forest

sun faced green silk and gold,

tracks of those who journey in faith

into the still of wooded glade,

within voices imagined

brambles pulled by enraged fingers

mess and tangle hide

that place used as a remote hope,

he should be there

pale faced

emotions a fountains stream

pleasure would not be found

with slackened vines,

this horizon embraced him

pulled into its complex afternoon

where time lie down

petal seconds fall,

chaos is not for choosing

sleep will not be heeded

as these files of thought

are put away,

staunched by class,

those in power jailers to tomorrow,

gas would fill indecent blue

and many more would fall,

for the sake

of secrets of kings

wordle

Turn The Soil

freedom is a ferment

of rhetoric rooted in

clotted earth,

turned by hand

and senate approval,

words grow

linguistic tangles of

law and statement,

a nation addressed,

trembling shoots

recover nutrition lost

leaves can only mottle

stagnant moments

of federal reserve

cacophony of calls

for it to be poured

to moisten

soak the soil

many hands upon the

handle,

few have strength,

resonant hearts

beat out

like drums across the

states,

voters in a patient wanting

after TV debate,

they had knowledge

a profound affect

on the effect of the nation,

red earth

blue sky

white stars,

imagine what you see

virtuous cloth

cannot hide

hunger and strife,

passed boarded fronts

and foreclosure sign,

to take a line

and show with mark

how life should be,

then wait

pollsters want your souls

but the nation needs your

heart,

give it life and think,

do not leave it to the

history of memory,

from fertile earth

comes life.

Fecal River

there has been a

spill and overflow

river once clear now

mucous thick,

abstract articles

floating past,

as i wonder where

it flows,

a meander

with tissue caught

on twigs,

testaments and 

statements

such utterances of

truth,

drying out gnawed

by feral rats,

how much further 

does it go,

the stench becomes

a taste infecting

each mouthful,

we used to believe

now unsure,

as a child a silver

mouthful could

be scooped as now

with pallid cheeks

look at the boiling 

mass beneath my

gaze