Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Comrade Santa

It was the night before his most important night,
and Santa could tell that something wasn’t right.
He had checked off his list,
he had checked it all twice,
he had checked the sleigh’s brakes and got travel advice.
He had been to the gym,
he had kissed Mrs Claus,
he had wrapped the elves’ presents,
and walked his snow dogs.
All that was left was to sleep before his shift,
but Santa had a feeling there was something he’d missed.

The children were waiting,
and the year had been a waste,
so Santa was ready,
Santa was on the case,
but there was an itch,
not on his beard or his knee,
something niggled at Santa,
something haunting and deep.
He stared in silence at the toys,
wrapped up in red paper and bows,
jigsaws and trains, teddy bears and dolls,
and he knew, that no matter how many presents he stuffed down the chimney with care,
it wouldn’t be enough to last the whole year.

The children were grateful,
the children were good,
but their parents were queueing at churches for food.
Work had dried up,
wage packets were small,
but every parent did their best to push through it all.
Santa stared at his wealth,
his Christmas Day feast,
the pile of gifts for Mrs Claus,
and he felt like a beast.
Even though he gave each year,
he still had so much more,
cheques from Coca Cola sponsorships,
and gingerbread on every door.
He’d give on Christmas Eve,
but there was more to be done,
so he set out a plan,
to have some Christmas fun.

On Christmas Eve,
Santa took to the skies,
showering every child with toys,
sending stars to their eyes.
He ignored his divisive list,
merciful to the “bad kids”,
and decided, instead to punish someone who really deserved it.
With his sleigh on the roof of all the richest men,
he snuck down the chimney and took out a pen,
he left each a note, after dipping into their wallets
“You’ve got too much cash, and you don’t really need it.”
Then back off he went,
back to each poor child’s home,
leaving twenties and fifties everywhere that he roamed.

The Musk’s and The Bezos’ cried out on Christmas morning,
but the police could never find a trace of a break in,
because Comrade Santa had been careful and clever,
red suited Robin Hood with gloves made of faux leather.
Every year after he played this extra role,
taking from the selfish and giving to the proles,
because he knew that unlike him, trickle down economics was fake news,
and that he had a duty to save poor kids from the blues.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Capitalism Is a Game, But You’ll Never Truly Win

Dawn is dark,

dirty streets,

dirty air await,

thirty pieces of silver,

on the fishing rod of fate,

daring her to betray herself again.

“Jump from your bed!”

The line smiles and says,

dragging her from dreams,

where she is more than part of a machine.

Last night,

she was at Greenwich Park,

parked on a blanket,

with the boy she liked,

hands tight together.

She kissed him,

just because she could,

until the moon was high,

sky shining with stars,

and they walked home,

to a pleasant, but not extravagant little apartment that they shared.

Dawn was dark,

she recognised it immediately,

bleary bleak morning chased away her dream,

the fishing line,

tapping on her window,

to the same rhythm as her incessant alarm clock,

and she sighed,

staring up at the ceiling for a second

(This was her daily treat to herself),

resigning herself to yet another betrayal.

“I have got to earn my keep.”

She repeats,

line by line, along with the fishing line.

“Sleep and dreams are for the weak.”

Following the glittering coins down the stairs,

still half asleep,

but awake enough to know her place,

she is dressed in darkness,

leaving without breakfast,

to join a collective of clouds,

just as dark as she,

all lead by lines of shining spending money,

that always feels near enough to keep reaching for,

but has never met their hands,

in a meaningful way.

She earns and she shops,

but all she really wants,

is that boy,

the one who lives in her heart,

and the little part of her brain that capitalism hasn’t conquered.

She wants,

and deserves,

so much more from the human experience,

but the world is hard,

and has a one track mind.

Dissent won’t do,


off she goes,

to earn,


and scream into her pillow,

before passing out from the awfulness of it all,

to be with the boy she likes,

for just a little while.