They've sold us ******* at a reduced price,
it was so cheap and hard not to buy.
Like a scrappy burger from a fastfood shop,
cheapest burger in town, you just can't say no.

They've sold us ******* about democracy,
bright future, freedom and prosperity.
About the new chapter in our poor lives.
They've sold us 'good news' - the big pile of lies.

They said "Just wait and you will see
what a great country we all live in".
When the voting time came, they beg "Vote for us!",
then they turned Parliament into a comedy club.

Now we are standing on the bus station
waiting for a bus, which is on diversion.
They apologise for the inconvenience,
promising that it will come, it's just been delayed.

But the bus is not coming, we keep freezing on,
knowing too well by now, that it'll never come.
"Can you, by any chance, get a replacement bus?!"
They can't, 'cause nobody longer cares about us.

They've sold us ******* at a reduced price,
it was so cheap and hard not to buy.
Like a scrappy burger from a fastfood shop,
cheapest burger in town, you just can't say no.

Love isn't blind,
blind are those,
who never loved.

He died in a sleep, yesterday morning,
unnoticed, without a warning,
quiet, like people die.

Now he doesn't need their spare change,
he doesn't need their promises
to sort this problem out
before 2025.

He doesn't need you now, London,
like you never needed him,
he won't bother you anymore,
you won't hear him again saying Please.

He doesn't need you, Westminster,
death solved his problems, not you.

He passed away in his sleep,
he now lies in a warm bed, smiling,
and angels bring him hot food.

But, he wasn't the first and the last,
there's many more out there in the cold

and every death of a homeless
is a little death of our Free World.


The poem was written after learning about the death of a homeless man in the tunnel near Westminster tube station in London.

They call him wild, untamed.
He doesn't belong to their world.
Too quiet
to be one of them.

He doesn't fit,
so they call him stranger,
someone who is a danger,
devilish, barbaric seed.
But he wouldn't **** a fly,
he is too shy to be
one of them.
Too shy to be.

They are scared of him,
because he doesn't fit
to their - barbaric - world.

You thought you were strong,
and look at you now,
lying on the floor,
yelling at the sky.

No one will come to help,
you kick them all out,
warned that you'd ****
if they dare to come back.

You laughed when they left,
now silence laughs at you,
and your body, like a shadow
in the empty room.

There's nobody to save you
nobody to help you out,
not even to pass you a rope,
a gun, a glass, or a knife.

You thought you were strong,
now you know your strenght,
lying on the floor,
waiting for - the end.

It was your name I fell for first.
An instant name crush when I saw it –
two names I’d never have considered putting together,
but how beautiful, how unexpected.

Of course I fell for you name first.
Names are so much easier to fall for:
all the possibility in Florence, its softness, its grandness,
all the temptation in the way Delilah slips off the tongue;
the potential for a story about a girl named Ilaria Winter.

-

I fell for your style next, then your hair,
then the way you introduced yourself with both names
and then the way you spoke in class.

I think I stared at you too often, and I’m sorry.
I didn’t think I was being obvious, and I hardly thought
you would notice (someone as boring as) me.

But you must have, and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry you talked to me for the first time at the station,
when the train was fourteen minutes late, the moon looked
strange in the sky and I was contemplating jumping onto the tracks.
I’m so sorry you spoke to me at the train station of all places.

Yes, train stations have so much potential for beginnings,
but it’s far more likely they’ll be about endings,
about the fleeting, the slipping, the moments of going separate ways,
the longing for home and the crying into books kind of moments.

-

(But thank you, thank you anyway, for talking to me and knowing my name
and complimenting my hair and my boots and my clothes.
I wish I could have told you I loved the way
the bow in your hair matched your heels but I couldn’t and I’m sorry)

-

How disappointing it is to open something and find nothing in it,
because that’s me and I’m so sorry.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess, because I’ve had to be creative
with my front to conceal the dreary words of my pages.

(And maybe – most definitely – I’m reading too much into this anyway,
but I’m boring and nothing much happens in my boring life (because
I don’t let it and I’m sorry.))

-

But thank for trying (and I’m sorry, so sorry).

-

I just wish you wrote poetry because at least then I could attempt to compliment that.

(and maybe you do write poetry, but I guess I’ll never know, will I?)

(I’m sorry.)

Someone
has robbed me yesterday,
has stolen my dream
of living in a world
where nothing is fake.

And I can see him,
he is everywhere,
all over the papers,
on the Internet.

I recognize
his innocent face.