Round Town …where if you nip into Sainsbury’s Local in cricket whites, you’re just liable to get battered, where weary women walk round in onesies and slippers, protesting about Slovakians stealing their benefits; where the only recycling is conversation. Round and round Where a lifetime of campaigning For civil rights makes a woman a snob If she thinks a tatty flag hanging Looks scruffy, yet a millionaire nob Gay-basher banker who wants to dismantle The NHS is a man of the people It says so here. Round and round, On unlicensed scooters, weaving about, The lads with angina skin, stars on their necks, Every reptile idea placed in their mouths By unseen millionaires, clearing the decks For their class war victory town of higher fences And lower taxes and hating strangers Round every corner. Round and round I mean; who can afford four fucking grand insurance? Pile into the car. Round roundabouts to a promise land Of Red Bull and donuts, a dark retail park Where there used to be a mine Til coppers and doggers called time, Leaning on bonnets. Round and round The titbits tossed down by occult men Feed the eyes wide sleep of conspiracy theorists. In dim spare rooms it starts to make sense, A Youtube mix, digging deeper when he’s pissed; Drowning down, flickering, fluttering, Not even looking, not taking it in, but he’s ashamed. Round and round. He senses what’s wrong but finds himself Drawn into sink holes that open like Nail Bars. Too much choice and the dripping shelves Are full of glossy pine boxes, just like the cars Circling roundabouts. It’s his own fault; The sweetness isn’t sugar, it’s salt. Round and round, But he knows his way round all too well To quit now. O, for a thousand tongues! But they’re tied down with rumours, under the spell Of the silent screens, his heart and lungs Straining like a crucified man, arms wide, Pleading to take him on a different ride In a straight line Straight out Of Here.

Plague When it came, carried who knows how, We scoured the mossy graveyard of our skulls For culprits and scapegoats we could wave like incense To ward off the swarm they told us Was coming. Day after day, spread who knows how, we passed on contagions that fitted descriptions in mossy grave heads, a swarm Of scapegoats infecting our nostrils Like cancerous smoke. They bled, God alone knows how, Through vessel walls and razor wire brain graveyards, smelling like incense, hands clenched warding off demon superstitions wrung out then ritually Scrubbed away. We picked away, at who knows what, Squeezing optimism from sores like cold boiled eggs Under newspaper skin, morning by morning, Scraping scabs off falling headstone pages, Who know why?

Be careful what you wish for Jo Cox 22/6/74 – 16/6/16 Let’s go camping, kids, away up Wharfedale past Bolton Abbey’s ice-cream crowds. Let’s not bother preparing, Just go down to Tesco’s in Batley, Live on buns & burnt bacon. Let’s chuck stuff in the car, just us, ill-equipped, not thinking it through. Or let’s escape to Glasto, spent bands in flooding fields searching for what’s long gone. Way back when there wasn’t a fence, but you could cry laughing at a bloke with a trombone doing Whole Lotta Love with his rectum, but when I checked my phone I just saw dumbstruck faces, unable even to smoke. Now it’s no joke, no protest vote but a corny nightmare where no-one’s speaking; Not the lovers and the artists in fancy dress, 27 with a bucket list, nearer 40 than 14, recoiling at the genie out the bottle, at pinch-faced plenty people possessed by a devil dressed as the common man. What do we do when demonizing is the problem? What do we call this satan, this dark permission? What do we do? Sit in online circles sharing outrage? Or reach out to White Van Man? Give that lad a map: Thinks Syria’s in Pakistan. He loves poetry. Not. Why not try your haiku saying Evil’s all Mens’ fault? That won’t have them purring round here; bellies full of bad beer and bad blood, hypnotized by wealthy mans’ mantras for fed up fans in vans, Daily Star poison dripping off the dash. Hard facts are for soft lefties. don’t call me stupid, you do-gooders want shooting. Cloak us in defeats and the failures of players. Move on to this week’s new profile picture. Back bench bullies still bellow Who are you? Hum a chirpy death march at family affairs. Shoes and a bag. A trampled rosette. The Mail and the Express. This is what you get. Shoes and a bag. A trampled rosette. The Sun and the Star. This is not a false flag. Shoes and a bag, A dim sense of shame Dust from the destruction layer What was her name?

Fall Back The clocks have gone back; Here comes Winter. The clocks have gone back to the 1930’s. Cold comfort colours, a siege down the Legion, old soldiers human shields for murkier manoeuvres. The clocks have gone back; Here comes Winter. It’s OK to say “send ‘em back.” Chunks of sunny time flutter dying through branches Where we built our kids’ futures like wendy houses. Here comes Winter, so get a decent coat made of ideals. Confront the chill of drip-fed rage and forage in forgotten books. Kindle fires for chapped lips and build a makeshift boat for sound bite floods from fabricated storms and then some. Wrap up warm in beliefs with leaves that breathe compassion, pink eyes stinging with callous burdens that seem beyond our capacity to cope and our collective ability to hope. The clocks have gone back, so gather together for shivering support, for talking and thinking, not instantly sharing Assumption’s lies. Face the bitter sleet, rub our eyes, for if there’s ever to be a Spring, It might begin when just one winner-sinner Says’ “Enough. No more.” In the pause that follows, birds might chime in.

Myiasis Despite shared pleadings of viral poetry, the summer song gave permission for bigotry. The worms fought back by poisoning the birds and all our verse was so much chatter. Hollie McNish videos didn’t defend Jo Cox, but an ailing miner who defied his angina. You couldn’t staunch a paper cut with YouTube views, never mind hostility for click bait wounds on refugees who only bleed if they’re under 5 and not got i-phones; who cling to dinghies like memories of Christmas, virtually alive, the air they gulp bemoaned by tired consumers. Relegated England’s welcome mat is piles of raging tabloids, dog-whistle politics, smirking right wingers who can’t believe their luck’s in: Open goals, old tricks, new tricks Imperatrix with a played out Olympics power point pout, maggot mouth devouring the language of empowerment. At what point do we simply stand up and walk out and cause a fuss that just hurts us, losing for the Common Good, not winning in machines that make us sick? Can I wrap a message in a parcel that means action? So why bother? People like us have no choice. People like us, Only have a voice if it rhymes, And that’s no justification for endless self promotion. All this rage in a library on a Tuesday? We have no choice. We write to get to sleep. Think this poetry might be a career? Auden didn’t, nor MacNiece, Eliot, Plath, MacCaig and all the best; Simon Armitage pays the rent with travelogues and translations, (nice though they are) and Ted Hughes didn’t write Pike in celebration of the Queen Mother’s birthday. This poetry just has to come out. We grumble and fumble for its smell. They might not get that down South. We have no choice, we are Northern, And the morbid mass on which our pet devils feed sustains us, too, while dreams of dusty failure Hatch like flies hoping to breed under thinking skin; A destruction layer under troll culture. Written down. Matter of fact.

Sicknote Pulled the car over to the hard shoulder, Made a circular list of things to do. Set it spinning just behind the eyes, Plugholing perpetual motion. No ‘Eureka’ moments, just neck muscle tension; The same answers over and over. No questions, just spiralling lists as conversations, Stick on smiles and scenes discarded Way back in the script. Attempts at rescue Skidded down the embankment in the wrong shoes, Shiny but useless. I’d drive off this bridge, But it’s such a nice car. Years working up to a burnt sausage sandwich. Pockets containing receipts and To Do lists. The beauty of envy in a funky café, Primary lampshades dripping from bare concrete ceilings. Latte agendas for crisply dressed meetings. Values expressed numerically; 0’s and 1’s. A poster flaps at one corner, someone’s Bright idea for a kids healthy eating app, Spat out by dried out summer Blu-Tak. Pissing down now. Two women fold their arms to shelter From tiger mum’s ingredient recital. Daughter just wants a burger.

Ali If all our heroes are dead, Maybe it’s time to grow up and be one. In other news: Screwing up the daily impossible, Listening to bespoke-suit satans Lecturing us, frightening us, dividing us, Blinding us, taking our fear for granted. But you shook up the world. In other news: Escaping from cities raped by perverted Searching souls, twisted almost beyond repair Distorting scriptures and posing for pictures, Drowning reaching beaches where slobs will insult us. But you shook up the world. In other news: Reducing life to defending what we’ve been given, Worshipping a fading plastic poppy’s-eye view; Thinking bigger walls will keep us clean when we’re Infecting those inside with our own obese self-pity. But you shook up the world. In other news: Losing a bike and stumbling on a calling, Handcuffing lightning, throwing thunder in jail, Being a country’s greatness, unrecognized, Despised, then revised into belated sainthood. You shook up the world.

Foreigners Humdrum greatness hidden in plain sight, When Dad used to come home knackered covered in plaster Have his tea then do a foreigner to pay for a summer holiday. Muhammad Ali. What his poems’ fists claimed, he actually did, A smart, black hero for us white, racist kids, Who Chose jail for his peaceful principles. What’s so special about Us and not Them? Greatness floats in then washes out again, Nourishment, our guilty tide, Refuses to be monopolised. Shakespeare gilded clichés into our mouths, tooled a sceptred tongue from flinted vowels, Charmed lives for dull kids hiding under estate desk lids After Mandela Resorted to the path of violence, He re-learned a better way in the cell’s cramped silence And even got Springboks to like soccer. A bit. So what’s so special about Us and not Them? Greatness sneaks in then washes out again, Nourishment unrecognised Never to be monopolised. Jacques Brel Rustled up poetry from Belgian canals While Frank Ifield was still teaching us to yodel And I was staring into the record player’s skylight At the music That formed and transformed us, brought Us by ships triangling the Atlantic, then self-taught From seas of static to fingertips and lips. So what’s so special about Us and not Them? Richness sailing in then washing out again, A guilty tide, unrecognised Struggling not to be monopolised. I love Mother Tongue, But French as well, with its vowels’ lovers’ lips And Spanish, with its Moorish Gypsy hips And Italian’s mountain cadence, And your language too, Wherever your deltas, your glaciers, Your coastlines, your rivers Pour like exile into seas of culture What’s so special about Us and not Them? Fullness leaking in then washing out again, Sight to the blind, unrecognised Never, never, never shall be monopolised.

When the revolution comes… It won’t be live & exclusive on Sky because we no longer believe in better unless we elect a left-wing leader then it’ll all be fully funded and HD ready like Allende in Chile with embedded celebs following our brave lads bombing so-called terrorists union leaders anti-frackers stand behind ‘em or stand in front of ‘em says the sticker in The Sun ‘cos they’re the only choices when the revolution comes. Van drivers will round up all the ageing hipsters and facebook warriors who’ve banged on for too long about how great punk was even though they’re too young like their dads did about the war and what was it for now the balding men sneer at their sons’ CD’s not threatening enough like their dads did about queers not nearly as edgy as their current re-inventions which shrivel and die when the revolution comes. Gangs of feral teens will smash windows in peace getting trainers for free because the chief of police will say they’re not coming out if the numbers don’t stack up but the empty boxes do and Sports Direct will be easy and free as internet porn and council houses with lawns will be a dewy myth and who wants that anyway when we’ve got all this and unlimited talk when the revolution comes. Performance poets will post comments about the march of rhyme and reason which are going out of season like Boxing Day sprouts driven right out of town by torchlit crowds making gut-level decisions based on clickbait hate from Facebook mates who don’t believe in Nothing but will believe anything so long as they already agree and anything they dislike is the product of elites, so long expertise when the revolution comes. The Daily Mail’s owner will be cornered by angry liberals who’ve finally snapped got their act in gear knitted their beards into artisan crosses despite deep agnostic agonies and when they nail him up he gets another shock ‘cos he’s not the martyr in the middle of the piece he’s the common thief who couldn’t see a kingdom come nailed to a tree and then to rub it in he looks to his right and the Messiah’s a Palestinian refugee when the revolution comes. When the revolution comes we’ll all have to be cruel to be kind because it won’t happen in the streets till it’s happened in the mind and no-one walks anywhere anyhow any more in an online village where everyone listens to Public Magicians’ superstitions and common sense spells and life’s too short so being English we’ll repress it and carry on just like before and we’ll certainly bore our Facebook friends to death With poetry & bullshit and poetry & bullshit and poetry & bullshit and poetry & bullshit before any revolution comes.

Northern Powerhouse We’re still here as wind whips white powder across aborted roads till our eyes sting. It sticks in the throat like surrender from the slumped union man, red tie flapping in the coordinated attack from the dust and the galeforce stink of chicken shit someone dumped last night to keep the numbers down. They already cut the cables on number 1, said the shaft was unsafe, couldn’t leave it, oh Lordy, no, Health & Safety, gone now but it was safe enough until the last three weeks to send working men down to keep the lights on. Now the brass band plays Abide with me as the handmade banner fights the wind. This is where we’re from. This is who we are. We’re still here after Buyout: Closure, Buyout: Closure, times two; last one gifted to a rich man’s son. What’s wrong with an old Micra, like that stolen one that just drifted over the rubble on the roundabout? Every time we kept the union alive. 80% ballots left no room for doubt, just like in the war when they went on strike for the right to have soap. They hated Hitler and defended their country underground, but they didn’t care much for Churchill either. Record productions followed by shutdowns, markets rigged by free market excuses. This is where we’re from. This is who we are. We’re still here, though they’re determined to wipe us out, not just because it’s a pit, not because it’s coal, not just because it’s where our past got its power, but because we represent a vision, a whole different world. No wonder we’re bitter with chasers of ashes in Poundland, bought off with knock-off bags. It’s a bit late to say, Don’t be political in top-down class warfare where that black stuff is taxed to death so they can sob lies at her funeral. As the band plays Jerusalem we will not cease from mental fight, nor bow to privileged devils who sell us endless War and scare us with Peace, and jeer at hope after all we’ve gained through struggles. This is where we’re from. This is who we are. And we’re still here.

Wanna rule the world? Make it up. Make it simple. Make it quick. Make it up. Make it angry. Make it stick. Straight out lies are not despised any more. Psychological priming is a matter of good timing. Time for sinking in but no time for thinking in. Get in nice and early and subvert the rule of law. Make it up. Make it simple. Make it quick. Make it up. Make it scary. Make it quick. It’s like farting in a library, You simply ration it out In time with your shoes for the morning news Leave no time for doubt. Make it up. Make it simple. Make it quick. Make it up. Make it angry. Make it stick. There are no online filters for misinformation and lies On an Instagram photo of Mary Berry’s pies. So fill your boots with untruths Feed your friends the news that’s fake Make it up. Make it simple. Make it quick. Make it up. Make it scary. Make it quick. Triteness is a virtue, sharing lies is not a crime No-one wants to do the background reading. I’d love it if David Cameron had fellated a rotting swine So I’ll click and share the lies I like in double quick time. Make it up.Make it simple. Make it quick. Make it up. Make it angry. Make it stick. Where’s the fun in explanation? Our attention span craves action. Ear worms for fed masses help prop up the ruling classes. We cry in our Chianti and think the mass inane But knee jerk fascist puppeteers are way ahead of our game. Make it up.Make it simple. Make it quick. Make it up. Make it angry. Make it stick. Make it up. Make it easy. Make it scary. Make it up.Make it simple. Make it quick.