This is for those hemp clad allotment dwelling new-age professionals,
riding the crest of an organic wine wave,
with heads tilted so far back,
showing off their vanilla white, Dulux painted nostril showroom.

11am, it's not too early,
community centre trip,
twisting and stretching,
kneading and rolling eighteen-month old Oscar into a morally righteous,
gluten-free,
linseed loaf of faux intelligensia.

Tofu and thai veg stirfry please,
healthy and nutriousness,
Nah!
it's greasy and delicious.
Cultured, not truly,
it's Anglicized cuisine really.

Less like a political activist,
more like the organic bourgeoisie.

This is for those sky high low and ***** media grads of the fate-late noughties,
grasping,
pathetically,
as dreams slip like their youth of yesteryear.
Unpaid, over-laid, saturated with the ***-comedy of their university days.

Then comes the choke and cloak of the next interview,
interview,
interview,
the view into the next room is so beautiful and dazzling after that last ****,
so beautiful and dazzling after the next ****,
so beautiful and dazzling, please, I swear I'll just have one more ****.

Ceremonial drug use,
a testimonial abuse of government aid,
paid to those by the Hair Blair bunch of chumps who screamed the promise of higher education for the lot,
a degree for every adult,
an unpaid job for every graduate.

The clouded confidence stutter of the high as a helicopter, once potential author,
lost in the part-time smog of inner city university town down-and-outers.
Left adrift with no financial spine,
left to pine the disillusionment they now know they felt way before they knew what they've come to do,
and be,
and exist as forever.

This is for those blind drunk old factory workers,
staring at their burly-early days gone by.

With a twist and shift of sand dry Old Holborn smoke
dragging the last drip drop slither of moisture from their crinkly-cut
red river mouth, whisky worn noses.

Stood basking in the try-so-hard sunlight of a watery greasy fork scented morning,
lent,
one denim arm,
against the fake sandstone slant of yet another high rise, glass front pub-restrau-cafe,
a catastrophic glimpse at the character death of the Northern English inner city.

The sweat snort stagger home of the old factory worker,
working 'like a turk',
to breath,
see,
walk,
and remain continent all at once,
and at all times forever more.

Lukewarm and stale when both down and in,
and up and out.
99pence per pint, 99pees per day.
The terrific scream of a living liver,
drowning its decay in discount Lonsdale but-but-but-it's just one more bitter.

You ask for the name,
Of someone you dont know.
Don't tell me to write a poem,
I'm not here for that.
I'll read what others write,
So I can believe in the quality of what I say.