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.
With rise and fall of right and all
Moving on again to its peak from finish
I wonder if your love for me will diminish
As in the past some of us were strung
upon the most local yew
and I fear I will be forever a hue askew
from the rest of you.
Held at ransom by the Foxton Cartel,
Local 2 bed mansions – guilded
in wheelie bin refuse, styled beaten brick chic.
Unattainable from the past’s sepia optimism.
la vie indisponible
available part ownership, deposit
a 100% addition to the student deficit.
to those with finances pristine Waitrose white.
25% of your days,
for your net total years.
a scheme helping the capital
grasp at the 1%’s remnance.
To venture with an old friend
Or advance a trembling true love,
Inflate your equity
To bleed for the benevolent extortion.
Your life now only available in part-
I catch you just as you slyly slink away,
the hideously trendy homme across, next
to you – peering to our volly of glances,
His Cos demeanor cool
by his atrocious cut chinos.
The deep rumble hurtles us along
the Victoria line -London’s blue artery,
it’s horizon a convincing night’s impression.
They were green
Or perhaps hazel
Our waltzing glances stealing covert gazes, Each a
second shy of a moment.