8:30 AM and I watch through a mist of resentful defeat,
another facet of this unflinching emotionless machine
A workhouse for the working-poor’s prise possessions.
Afar I see the small distorted faces of those told of their malevolence and evil,
those encouraged to leave quietly,
to think of others, to not make a fuss, being quietly squashed by professionalism’s conformist heel.
The Ruling White Males don’t let a glance escape
an eye’s notice a reserve of punishment and discipline;
too valuable for the mundane pleasantries of the young’s every day.
The Black Females, they’re the Bad Kids,
overly loud, tactile and quite too negroid, their hair illegal fitting
A culture unfitting of moral good behaviour.
It seems the Blacks hate the Gays says the one of the Ruling Males,
the division lies in the beholders blind eye,
unaware that many are one in the same.
Nevertheless, the swathes of young cease,
the school’s front quietens,
the Congolese Janitor closes the gate The Males left open.
Of the most forgiving of us
it is to turn the other cheek,
Only be slapped anew.
Perhaps soon we’ll turn to Che
or those solemn folks from the IRA
learning lessons of fire and ice.
really that’s the only type of honesty there is.
A compliment bubbling through the lips of admiration.
un-tinged by the cynicism of self benefit.
Do I say thanks enough?
To those who do what I’ve come to expect.
To those who meet my assumptions, and fulfill my needs.
I wave a soon forgotten thanks
to those paused at the zebra crossing
allowing me to just catch the tram I would have just been late for.
My friends and family, bastions of support and love,
I see you,
even if my words do not reach your ears.
Perhaps I do not give enough meaningful thanks,
as I applaud my own hard work’s achievements.
But I’d be floored without your outstretched arms, your words
repairing my ego raising a coy smile.
Perhaps I shy away,
to give thanks is to admit a weakness, a vulnerability
healed by another’s words and actions,
a naked appreciation masked in a mini shame.
And so I’d like to thank you Ashley,
for all you’ve done
doing nothing special at all.
What lingers in the air is the scent of, mum’s cooking
cooked by someone’s Aunty from Spanish-town.
New black Bimmers pulling up
to get a recession priced chicken & rice.
Prams and pushers slowing down the 312,
and some fool claims his new oyster card’s ‘in the post‘.
The sky’s blue,
cracking through new build Aldi and the ancient maisonette.
It’s quiet today, the school children at home preparing for school tomorrow,
And the response they’ll give to ‘Where’s your homework!?’
And still after 20 years I love you all the same.
Wise to your failings and flaws.
and your trembling peace.
I don’t know where these Union Jacks flags came from,
Their interdispersed patriotism
Realpolitik from a bungalow very much mundane.
We’ve exercised our partition
With a pride of divorce
We know who we are
Our diversed society resourcing our identity from selective shunning.
But again soon this pride will fade.
As will the #PostRefRacism
again we will cool complacent.
come the hours of calm.
Where the ether is still,
still enough to see its reflection.
Minds and fingers twitch,
the heady rush of this world’s
many tempting deaths, abandoning reality,
in return to the cold sobriety of the bedroom ceiling.