Posted in Blog

Marcus Rashford Is Right

We cry for statues,

but not kids in poverty.

Our tears are wasted.

Our tears should drown us.

The world is starved of kindness.

A shameful cyclone.

A shameful cycle.

The poor will always perish,

but statues live well.

I recall hunger,

optimistic and tired,

so do so many.

We worship the stone,

our government’s soul is stone.

Summer is so long.

 

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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, politics, Writing

Jeremy Corbyn, naked and alone.

The sky is falling,
afraid of heights,
her throat is scorched from screams,
by the time her brains
paint the pavement.
Mother May wants to talk about Jeremy Corbyn,
naked and alone.

The floor has cracked,
and ripped rib from rib,
lungs lick the street,
abandoned by air.
Mother May wants to talk about Jeremy Corbyn,
naked and alone.

The dead have risen,
feasting on the remains,
the anthem ignored,
by humanity munching its mess.
Mother May wants to talk about Jeremy Corbyn,
naked and alone.


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