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Lewis Irwin May 26
He closed his eyes on his weekly stroll,
And pondered on what it would be; if he'd known,
That it'd be a golden paved death - he'd lay with his dole.
Would all the trench boys still ****** to dug out holes?

Many bitter nights with malice to his brain,
Thought lasting the hardship would be the 'all okay'.
The flag would save him; The flag would eradicate the pain,
But the flag hollowed him out and the trench boys all the same.

What must we do in such a caviler present age?
Sign petitions in false hope of changing the unchanged?
The ol' trench boys still rot in sheltered accommodation.
Gave their live; their youth; their back and front tooth,
For their isolated treasured nation.
Lucy Wooding Sep 2017
Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.


Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.


Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.


Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.


Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.


Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.


Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.


**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.


Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.


Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.
Tintin Aug 2017
You only live
so I keep my life?
why do you speak
so much of
giving your life
in exchange for mine?

As fires blaze
in the sanctity of our room
cards lay out
in a gamble

I cannot allow you
To suffer again
To be toyed with or worse
Ripped and burned

The both of us
We'll be filled with love
When the executioner comes
To collect us
Tintin Jul 2017
This is our gamble
these cards on the table
neither of us
will be a sacrifice

your life
for mine
what kind of twisted fate
lays waste
to an innocent being
who was trapped in
a mechanical ****

As gunfire
and bonfires
chaos explodes

take my hand
and in our execution
let's both go
to Elysium.
Tintin Jul 2017
She talks
and asks
why
I cannot speak

She drags me everywhere
and has a grand time
while I am forced
to live in a mechanical body
she crafted to me

Radio waves
are my only means
and one sentence repeats
in my limited vocal ability

I pray for Elysium
and the soft grace and rest
still she drags me
I'm nothing but a doll

spirits take me
from this prison
why must I be forced
to live a life already full
Tintin Feb 2017
Steam,vapour,power,life
opens up a mechanical eye
springing to life
curious
scared

maniacal laughter
thinking
they have over come
life and death
their creation huddled in a corner
terrified of what there fate will be

Hiding with the one
he longs to be with
knowing she is engaged to another
songs his only way
to communicate

though she is flesh
and he a beast
disfigured and hideous
still she loves

arms grasp
peeling off
outer layers
fall like a sheet

behind it
lies
a soul who's finally free
Simon Leake Oct 2016
What I have is a pitch
angled at nothing
and I envy the limber crowd of bees,
and I envy the spider’s easy meal.

The low hum of a wash cycle
competes with, then dislodges my dirge,
gradually builds a golden,
natural looking wan expression.

Diffident? Go out and meander
content to accept the indifference of meaning.
This walk is not a protest.
This work was only ever play.

Suitable for all skin types
our explanations can’t help themselves,
run like British accents on trade
and explain away any need for help.
Non-streaking conceits
you know best how much you are worth.
a poem partly made up from the blurb on a shampoo bottle!
Frederick Noakes Apr 2016
The spirit of Jacksonia lies in the tides. But sometimes we never see what the moon hides. The spirit of Albion lies everywhere at all times.
Frederick Noakes Apr 2016
Albion. Our circle. Our home. Our world. Our land of the rose. The land of lime and stone. Our *****. Our Native Land. Our Father Land. Our Mother Land. Our Home. Oh Albion!

— The End —