Sniff

THE PAST'S

         A BASTARD

         THE FUTURE'S

GLUE

Two Two Glasglue

 

The Fluer de Lys sing a version of Circles, as her

long lens snapped at his. I didn’t put on my best for

this kiddy shite, the world is round the corner and man,

I want to hear the thud and bounce of ball on wall, an’ all

your doings are getting me soaked.

 

In this game, pigtailled charm, don’t cut it. You can

cast your heart if you like, but my trainers are spanking, this is

an orbit, in which I won’t admit, I want to glow too.

But, in these lines of best-fit, chewing on the words of others,

just makes me spew.

The Top 10 Things To Do In London's 4th Poorest Borough

 

How’s life in the smoke he said? I said, follow me –

We’ll greet the ex-drinker blagging a tab outside the boozer.

It’s all the aftercare he’s got. Where the old boys talk of when

Georgian was council, and the Irish pubs spilled out.

We’ll filter up the park, where those with gardens, write letters 

about those without. We'll bbq another dying library. 

We’ll trip the socially-cleansed churchyard, where the 

scaffolders stopped spitting on the homeless when the clips 

ran out. God, as ever, said nowt.

We’ll laugh at the bike-locked slippers outside the mosque, as 

the fella off the telly downs a miniature before the bus. There’s 

nowhere to sit these days for that amber buzz. 

We’ll refresh the commemorative flowers wilting on the site of 

another stabbing, on Supper street, by the café elite. 

We’ll sidle the queue on benefit day, snaking the same 

stretch as a baker's dozen estate agent's. It’ll take five minutes.

We’ll add up fag packet road closures, times by cycle lanes, equalling 

a fine of 65.

We’ll picture the Prime Minister’s old house lying canny

in a row. 

We’ll gentry-push towards the Emirates, past her cries for a quid, past

another ex-record shop, past our masters in high-viz. 

For tender is the bid, they’ll tweet about who’s won.

We’ll ask the support officer about community, they'll say – 

you’re in Islington now, son.

Stigma

"Tackling the stigma of relying on foodbanks"

Yeah, let's

normalise poverty, 

weave it in our walk, 

stich it to our shmatta, 

and strut it down the street. 

No shame in using foodbanks.

All of it's for those who voted for them. 

Arcadia

the ombré

over the glasshouse /

the opening

of Outrun 

make it clear / they call it chaos

make it clear / they call it chaos

a wounded deer on the straight road

though the pines. low on fuel and signal.

crows survey the failing light. burger sauce

on a national trust map.

it is not

confusing / complicated / hard to navigate /

or make sense of / it is

straight forward /

we are not in chaos /

we have turned sharp right

you know of those / who drove it that way

your job is to make them

stop

These warnings, are trusty

These warnings, are trusty

 

The workers are tired,

trapped with absolute terror.

Touchy wardens, are they.

Toyed with; artists, truly

taxed, worried and torn.

 

Try whimsical, after ten

totalitarian weekenders, a thousand

totalling wind-ups, against tinsel

titled wankers all tucked-up

toasty, within allibaster towers.

 

Theiving, wherever. All tokenistic.

Triumphing worthy altruistic tendancies.

Trust. We’re all tuning

to whatever airways, trading

tik with any tok.

 

Tories will always try

to wantanly alienate, to

totemically wrest, auto-tune tribalism,

top-down widespread allied tabiod

toss, whenever attitudes tire.

 

This, when actual tradespeople

turn willingly against themselves,

taking whatever acid treaties

they will accelerate tomorrow.

Think why, allus this.

 

Treat without all thoughtfuness

these words - and these

three-line whipped and tyranic

tuchusleckers will always triumph.

These warnings, are trusty.