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Cosmo Adair Mar 10
Tonight
no stars will shine on parliament square with dreamy-light,
but clouds form a heavy mist,
drifting thru limestone cracks, uncertain and dark -
Monet’s fog looming o’er liberty in ecstatic chesty laughing fit spectating democracy’s final breath,
raffling a tenner in his greedy hand as he drowns in final whisky glass,
chokes on canc’rous fumes of tobacco-pipe, ‘red-faced ‘n’ laffin ‘bout nuthin’.

False prophets of politics ****** the women with Rasputin cause -
the forceful hand grooms the sweet bronze thigh of unknowing England with piggish grimace -
cries for divorce screeched by harpies of inheritance exclaiming expertise in Europe and stock-market and second coming of most holy Jesus Christ -

‘if Jesus wer ‘round he’d vote Brexit
tru ******’ Brit he’
‘Oh yasssssss, daddy voted brexit, mummy voted brexit, get rid of those ***** Europeans’
‘Waheyyyyyy, that’s it son! What a proud father I am’ -
‘Return of soveraynetee is a joy’us thhhhing’
‘here, here’.

Hear street-trumpets muffling voices under hush midnight streets
and sweet Thames flowing chartered down
tide crashing washing big masonry walls under spooky twilight piercing thru big smoke,
thousand constant lights of windows transcended over the fiery banks
serenading a river path -
thumping of smashing shoulders knocking people to ***** street path -
crowd marching o’er westminster bridge with hateful cause and patriotic guise -
hear the dragging of the mind’s manacles, the roar to break the chains.

O dreamless city under curfewed sky! where art thine stars? Where dost the flower bloom in Spring?
O dreamless city, thine streets brim with despair -
ghost faces under umbrella shell in designer suiting move entranced on the underground,
thru life and death, beginning and end,
transcending monument station
into the thundery January day.

On the damp grey pavement I was sewn
On the damp grey pavement I grew, rising thru cement cracks dusted with cobweb and cigarette butts.

Walking street after street thru the mass of smoke that rolls along the grey pavement,
and cars of ****** rich zooming past, awaking the dying cigarette sat old n gloomy in my hand,
commencing thousand proxy revolutions in the blinking of an angsty eye,
setting fire to torches that will burn in uncertain nothingness of dreamy night.

How engines roar in street’s machinery!
How sirens shout in tandem as blood drips from a knife!
How subway screeches a battle-cry from the dark abyss of the tunnel, deus ex nihil the war-mongering machine.

My cheek is caressed by city fumes
rubbed by the black sooty fog spat out exhaust pipes
and the prophets see visions appearing in the coal black fog
and the philanthropists see another pa oppurtunity
and beneath the liberal kindness of the city only money prevails (that disease remaining constant thru eternity, like Time itself).

does anything ever change?
nothing can ever change.
Still in progress; want feedback!
Makayla Jane Mar 6
I was headed home when I stumbled upon thee;
A spidder

Your hill-like crooked legs speeding down the road towards me,
I tried to run

But far too fast were thee and crawled upon me
The spidder whispered to me;

Now at last,
We're connected by stomach and arm
A poem I made for a best friend based off a joke we made lol.
That pound means more to her
Than it does to me
She's got to feed her family
A family of three

****** by the government
And ******* by society
This is what it's like
To live in Blighty

They've come here for a better life
A second chance
And a chance to survive
No they're out
On their own
Just like a dog
Without its bone

****** by the government
And ******* by society
This is what it's like
To live in Blighty

It's **** or be killed
The rich feed the rich
While the poor scape and beg
All alone
On a cardboard bed
No change for you
No not today
I need my money
Sorry love
Not unless you accept contactless
Or Apple Pay

****** by the government
And ******* by society
This is what it's like
To live in Blighty
nick armbrister Dec 2018
Layered Cake
I’ve known many unsavory characters from my home city of Manchester
There’s the ex-demolition guy who took a great dislike to me
Did he have visions of blowing me up instead of my old car?
He had a trainee apprentice in the wings and had connections

I knew several football hooligans who fought for what?
For England, their home team, themselves, for violence?
Each told me a story of Rah-Rah-Rah Here We Go Lads!
One fought riot cops in Poland and was jailed in a sanatorium
He somehow escaped and was banned from Poland for life
The other was a City fan and battled his opponents in Greece
He was 45 and still loved a good tear up on match days

Drug dealers prominently featured in the city and surrounding towns
One dark night in my home town I saw an ex-dealer shot dead  
I heard then saw the BMW getaway car zoom off
Oddly I thought I heard two gunshots after it had gone
The ex-dealer’s wife asked me to help and I tried to
But there was nothing I could do but call the medics

Chavs are the worst in my town and others
Council House And Violent and ruling the tough estates
With their violence, crime, dealing and other acts
Not going to school or college but sleeping all day
And drinking and smoking **** all night with their underage gals
But when do they have time to do their crimes?

There are the plastic gangsters who think they’re it
Maybe with their mates they can burst a paper bag
Or intimidate innocent law abiding citizens who are meek

Further afield I met a gangster in Liverpool who was alrite
He liked a right tear up and had a job to appear legit
But his real work was in various things like drugs, guns and cash
He offered me a job as a courier because my car was old and gray
I said no for its easy in and never ever out

The English racists were a breed apart who hated all skins
I got on with one who liked metal but we clashed on views
He loathed foreigners and wanted them all out
And insisted that white men stick to white women

Most scary of all I met a killer on the run in Newcastle
We were on the ship disco by the river having fun
This guy had a real flirty wife called Carmen
I danced with her and later talked to her husband
He schitzed out and went mad but not for chatting with his gal
I asked what’s wrong and he admitted to killing a man
And said he didn’t know me from Adam so be quiet!
He was a Londoner and I said you did it for your own reasons
His wife consoled him when he had flashbacks

Ex-servicemen gave me a few problems over the years
I was drinking in my local pub when a para and a marine argued
First with one another and then with me over who was best
They hated the air force and me wearing an Air Force badge
Maybe they needed a war to get their heads blown off?

There were many fighters who lived to fight and cause trouble
Some had a go at me I tried to avoid their skills but heard their stories
Some were nutters but others quite pally and fine lads
There were brawlers, boxers, Martial Artists and more
Near the Mess House pub in Oldham guys die by a single punch

These savory and unsavory characters were the fabric of England
Some I remember and many I forget for right or wrong reasons
Their stories live on here my poem for you to judge
Mitch Prax Dec 2018
The city is alive
with its aging streets
and their flashing neon lights.
The hungry inhabitants shed no tear;
the gutters are already overflowing
with broken bottles and promises
and liquid dreams as old as the palace.
This city holds excitement for us all.
But no joy.
Friar Tom Dec 2018
Arthur's kingdom, bright, so clearly shines
Among the grassy knolls of Briton
The Round-Table knights patrol the land
That Ol' Winter has clearly bitten.

With poor peasants freezing in their shacks
Their love for Arthur keeps them smitten
They don't remember the last they saw
Of the Almighty King of Briton.

The Round-Table knights now carry guns
And your tales have all been rewritten.
Oh what must we do to summon back
Our old sleep-stricken king of Briton?

The world is different now, my Lord
And in new tales may you be written.
With sword in hand, Lord please striketh down
The ****** New-Rulers of Briton.
For Avalon, for Albion
Sara Kellie May 2018
Leave my Nan out in the rain, it'll be right.
She's having veg later with some meat, on a bone but meat.
No gravy, she's too lazy. She will not thread it.

So what do you think? Shall we fold it the other way?
Do it tonight, it won't be today and not quite black but definitely not grey.

If it smells like cheese, just wear one and keep one eye open!
Then, we may even finish third.
Remember, listen for the sound.
It's crucial, like a twenty pence piece.

Dust! Always dust. Grams and ounces of the dustiest dust.
Never before six and never after six.
Just continuous with no bends, bubbles or any of that material you really like.

Because when he'd finished speaking (The Italian) I didn't understand a ******* word of it!

"Sorry, I don't speak Italian", shrugged my shoulders, did that thing you do with your bottom lip and ****** off.

THE END
(FINITO)
A poem describing the problems we encounter through language barriers.
The solutions we create to overcome them!
Especially the English
We've been planning this for months, years even.
Nothing can stand in our way now, nothing.
The Protestant King will surely fall,
after we blow Parliament up the wall.

Today is the day that they will remember us.
We shall fight! We shall prevail!
History will be made tonight.
No stone will go unturned as we overthrow the King.

I sit here, keeping guard over the barrels.
Waiting for the signal to ignite.
It's a menial task - sitting and waiting. Caw! Caw!
There's the signal! Time to ignite!

Sizzle! *****! Pop!
There go the barrels! Setting ablaze the room.
Parliament and the King will fall!
Down tumbles the building! Burning up the sky!

We have fought! We have prevailed!
The Catholics will be in power once again!
We have made them remember us forever!
Remember, remember the 5th of November.

*

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November

Gunpowder treason and plot

We see no reason Why Gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot ...."
Struggling to write the world with words,
my eyes stumble upon the poplar's first
of many coming yellow leaves,
reassuring me that nature's hiding
a trick or two up her seasonal sleeves.
elle Oct 2018
each New England home you’ve moved into
and out of
creaks the same
under my changing weight.

the porch sags,
sporting chipped paint
from years of cigarette breaks
spent shuffling, feet dug into wood

flimsy locks and screeching mailboxes,
the basement granite walls
and clunks of the laundry machine,
speak to me in familial hums
as if to sing,
stay away.

the same centipedes
scurry by my feet
as water falls deafeningly
I’m frozen in time.

staring empty-eyed into these brimming closets,
my vision strains.
florescent light
gleams across shut picture books of
treasures lost.
nothing left but old habits

found, as tools to our escape.

even I’m still slipping up,
and into the courting beds of lost men
mothers looking to me longingly
bearing sad smiles and gifts, as they lock the liquor away.
every son’s depression tugs the same short leash

knowing this much,
calms me.

home is a sad that
hangs dry in the cool thick air,
a sad that feels like November
like drenched rain coats, muggy with our heat
and after school how we
sailed paper boats
just to watch them drown in storm-sewer drains

home rings like
the bell of every summer heartbreak,
which coddled me to sleep
then too, shook me sharply.
only to find myself deserted

a ship at sea,
my heart buried in sand, again.

home is
the heavy drought before the rain
it stands on our heads
it dances past our eyes
it lives in our reflections
teasing us,
as if to say
we’re not allowed to cry.
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