How do you explain

to your children that the

horrors of the world are real?

How will I tell my son, We

found a place you can call home but

your bus might not make it to school.

Do not look too Jewish in this part of town

Do not play in the train station

Do not get used

to the weight

of a machine gun.

Or look my

daughter in the eye and say, someday

you might say “no” and someone stronger than you might

not listen

You will not tell me

Know that this happens a lot

Know that your wrists pinned against a

backboard will

echo in the way you move your hands

for as long as you let it

But

human hands aren’t as heavy as metal shackles

And I’m so sorry

but I won’t be able to

take the weight for you

You’ll wake up in the morning

That I can promise you

You’ll wake up

and your lungs will fill with air

whether you tell them to or not.

One day

I will hold someone

small, with my face

and they’ll cry and I’ll say,

*I know.

I know you’re tied with little yarn strings to the last life

I know it hurts to be here and

(honestly)

you’re never going back

But

the older you get the less you’ll remember

what it was like

before you had a body

when you were made of ash and infinite light

You’ll convince yourself you live here and

that your hands are you,

But remember that once you were boundless

Inside my body, without yours.

The weather autumnal has turned cold,
But you nod your heads in colours bold,
As sparks of colour in your soil,
To make me smile when home from toil,
I adore my pansies in every hue,
When all the others growth is through.

I could write a metaphor about you in the dust,
Etch the perfect simile on my bonnet red with rust,
Scrub the pan until it shines but leave a food stained heart,
Do all the laundry and iron shirts so you're smart,
Arrange all the spice jars to your name in the aisle,
Vacuum the carpet with your initials and a smile,
Place a rhyming couplet as I put clean sheets on the bed,
But I'm an awful housewife so I'll write this poem instead.

From the sleeve
The vinyl slips
I move my hand
The needle dips

Sinatra with rolled up sleeves and a cigarette
Takes up a stool in my kitchen
Tips his hat and sings as I peel potatoes.

He's fat and he's hairy,
He poops and he snores,
Makes marks on the carpet,
Scratches wounds in the doors,
Wees in the kitchen,
Coats my whole house with hair,
Stands where it's awkward,
Hogs my favourite chair.
Wants walks when it's raining,
Won't go out when it's nice,
Chucks food in dark corners,
That attract all the mice.
Greets me in the morning,
As if I've been dead,
Jumps on my lap,
And tramples on the bed.
He's a pain in the ***,
And sometimes drives me to madness,
But I love you Dave,
You're the cure for sadness.

I would like them to be,
Something special between you and me,
Maybe where I left my will,
Or funny like 'told you I was ill',
Or I'll give you directions to hidden treasure,
Or a wodge of cash to be spent on pleasure,
But on a list of final words the number one,
Would simply be, "I love you son".

I am actually a huge fan of Banksy and thoroughly enjoyed Dismaland but the A level kids I teach at a school just down the road from Weston couldn't get in because they've got Art P2. We wrote letters and sent emails but had no reply. They were very disillusioned by it all so their art teacher decided to take them to Dismaland and show some of their work on the grass outside. Security were not impressed and called the police. We made a film about it and I read this poem at the gates. This is the first part.
So this is where this tale will start,
Of What is Banksy? Who is art?
You're the joke now, don't you see?
This ****** ticket lottery,
For crazy cats who play the rules
Not you poor buggers stuck in schools
Can’t press refresh at the stroke of ten
Cos that's exactly the time when
the bell rings for art to begin
The irony is lost on him.
No tickets in your grubby hand
Cos schools cant afford the broadband.
Don't look at me with dismal faces
You lot sure are going places
Yep, you're all sat on a train
Going to weston in the rain
Who do you lot think you are?
No movie queens nor a rock star
You don't fly in from LA
You don't even have a card to pay
No Damien's, No Brad. No Suze.
Pack up your dreams kids,
Born to lose.
Like a load of buckets to the factory gate
Where we'll have to stand and stand and wait
He is not Wonka, he's not your friend,
This Charlie gets nothing in the end.
So looks like we might not get in,
Stare them down kids, take ours to him.
Banksy Inc. has made these choices,
But they can't silence all our voices.
Helllooooooo Banksy?
Are you there?
Going to show these kids you care?
Open up those hallowed portals
For this lot of mere mortals?
They've brought stuff they want to show
It's really very good you know
Because they made it from the heart
Not for a calendar of street art
You know? Like how you used to be?
Before they showed you on TV.
They protest about stuff for reals,
And soon be snapping at the heels
Of all the London folk in there
Sell for a million but pretend they care.
Come on Banksy they'll be good
Take their selfies like they should.
Come on Banksy, just be nice,
They'll snap up all your merchandise
And shuffle round the park like drones
Take out pocket money loans.
Listen kids, this isn't working,
Banksy's in his rolls and shirking,
We don't need to storm the walls
We can show them we've got *****
By standing here and giving free
What they've all spent five quid to see.