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Goodbye kiss to the day I'll miss.
Put headphones on and select a song.
Down the cobblestones until further decision.
Division like the very fabric of football.
Could choose my normal route to The Square,
just four corners to take - a simple shape -
see proud flags made of organic thread,
all the colours I like will be on display. Although,
what if I head down Butcher Row instead?
Sure it's steeper down the shuts but
I fancy my luck out there today.

Before the leap, I see a wall
so opposite to my position, it's hostile.
How long have these concrete eyes watched on?
I'm terrified and contemplate calling in sick,
return to rich address and don't overthink.
Then in each direction, groups meet at the centre.
There's pointing and shouting and spit flying
into hair that's in flames and ignites more people
to march out deluxe doors left ajar
as kids peer through windows
above the obscenity.
Hesitate to whisper,
future back in that house,
until I see bricks change angle.

Thinking in pink.
Shout loud about my background.
Grab the handle of both sides.
Point my crooked nose at the stone:
'Let's climb this together.'
'Peace and love forever.'
Those at the back can't hear my speech.
But those really listening cheer and preach.
Reach for ladders or offer cupped palms.
Touch the top layer but get knocked off
by a flare thrown from out of nowhere.
Hunt the culprit while the victim burns.
Bodies clamber to sample some action
like a mound of sugar infested with ants.
Look back at my house in a peaceful daze.
Turn to the melee and see a knife in my face.
Poem #11 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. It's 280 words about a certain social media website.
Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.

Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.

Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.

What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.
Poem #8 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad' focuses on social media.
Logic to the dissonant, confetti into flames
watch it turn to ash.
The disquieted don’t want comfort,
they want to protect their definition of purity
and simply, for the complexities of the universe
to serve them solely.

Dissatisfaction becomes identity,
a vice to sate,
just one more redemptive hit
and they’ll sleep
dreaming of their idyllic reconstruction of reality.

Everyone’s a visionary
blind to the piteous state
of their mass-conformist unity fantasy,
forgetting that autonomy isn’t only in the mind of the beholder.
Betty Jul 30
Hungry Twitter beast
Constantly demanding food
Are you never full?
Anais Vionet Jul 7
On Twitter, late at night, you’re a big tough guy
calling people out and spitting in their eyes.

But in the real world - you blubber and you blunder,
like inside your head there’s a fire in the dumpster.

Your call to drink Lysol was a typical, deadly, Trump proffer -
your handling of the pandemic an incompetent slaughter.

In the face of unrest you pour fuel on the fire -
a dead BLACK man? You're a trouble amplifier.

Texting on Twitter you’re a liar and a punk -
when trouble breaks out, you hunker in a bunker.

You’re America’s undertaker, our commander-and-thief -
a living, breathing catastrophe - leading America disastrously.
A Trump, twitter and coronavirus poem
AvengingPoet May 27
Wake up with that cup of coffee
Notifications blasting up the phone
Incompetence from the Oval Office
Tired petty arguments of a 12 year old
When 100,000 are dead

Just admit it
You ****** up

Place the blame on anyone else, right?
That’s easy, right?
Distract the citizens with tweets
Conspiracy theories, lies, and deception
Democracy crumbling in this wonderful Republic

Do we have enough time to save this all?
Have we gone too far backwards?
Are we constrained?

Another black man dead by the hands of the state
But **** it, blue lives matter, right?
Blue lives ain’t a race
Would the president even bother to utter a word about it?
Nah, he’s racist as **** and don’t give a ****

The MSNBC host who didn’t ****** someone
Is more important
Waste time, who cares?
Millions unemployed
Open up the country because we are just human capital
Just numbers for the stock market, right?

Make profits for your rich pals
Leave office
Success!

I throw the cup of coffee on the ground
I’m tired
I’m so tired

Democracy is coming to the USA
...or at least I hope so.
**** trump, vote in November
I wanted to see her face again
So I deleted Instagram

I wanted to know what she was thinking
So I deleted Twitter

I wanted to hear her voice
So I blocked her number
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