this parade of sleepless and inarticulate persons
worry me.
their well-intentioned ill-thought red-top causes
lack depth.
Jay from Nunhead doesn’t like death.
rung up to say he thinks
everything should be
a Class A
and girls in Paris are fit.
Rob in Westminster wants to teach respect
with mandatory bootcamps and wars.
i drink all the wine except the stuff on my vest.
i will shit black tomorrow
and my head will be full of the sound of
hundreds of planes
but for now
the radio kicks me hard in the chronicals
with half remembered indie
from long ago.
and
the fuzzy dawn is a lightsabre line above the curtains
and the joint a fat black thing
no one should touch again.
youth crime/gang culture/slow dread
the Warriors and sci-fi
comes out
the god-fearing spinsters/white-van-men mouths
in chubby slices
urgent to be heard
looking for blind agreement and easy blame
and
the dj is a dog and even he has had enough now
sounding like Travis Bickle
he hatches a crazy plan
for one 20 year tutor for every 5 feral kids.
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