Home Sweet Home

So this is it; our England. Derelict factories soon
to become National Trust treasures of where
the scuzzy masses earned tatterdemalion
Liz portraits for their bread. The Cross of
St. George fluttering from the seventieth floor of rat
run council estates colour washing the air like
rose petals in a toilet
bowl trying to mask the right wing stench.

In the twilight
we lie on the grass looking up above the sign
NO BALL GAMES ON THE GREEN
as Jed plays with my tits.
I let him.
He bitches about how small they are, says
if we get a gun we can do over a Post Office
to get enough dosh to get implants.
Says I could be on page three.
He bitches they’re too small for a decent tit wank.
I tell him to fuck off: FUCK RIGHT OFF.

My block is called Lister House, pretending to sound
a posh palace or something grand. Just try getting
something delivered. The lifts are knackered,
stink of tramp’s urine and there’s needles
on the stairs. People now just don’t care.
Don’t even pretend to care. Could be worse,
maybe,
we could be members of the knobility
desperately hiding a past of inherited
syphilis and inbred madness
tucked away in the attics of country mansions
built on exploitation. I want to squat over them,
full of last night’s cheap voddy and bad drugs;
piss on them from up above.
Oi Eton boys; it’s only restorative rain
open yer gobs and drink me
you’ve bought and sold me, you’ve beaten me
and owned me, fingered and fucked me,
eaten my cunt
until my fanny batter has sweetened yer rank breath.
DRINK ME
Open yer mouth let me piss on yer rhetoric
of WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER …

The girl down the Jobcentre looks down her nose at
me. I can tell she thinks I’m another blonde Barbie
lying on my back for some extra cash. How dare she!
BITCH WHORE DOG SLAG
honey, I’m a love slut, I do it for the love that hurts
and breaks yer heart. The only heart she’s got is in how
to cut my Jobseekers Allowance, even though I’m better
qualified than her: I’M SCUM
I tell her every once in a while she needs to
take it up the bum. Just like Queen Vicki:
she ain’t amused. She pulls out a minimum wage job
flipping burgers. I tell her honey I’m a vegetarian. Under her
breath I can hear her say: “of course you are, yer a COW”.

Back home I tune in on Rinse FM, I think I’m gonna
try and dance meself to death. I used to cut, until
I started to worry that I’d run out of blood, now I just
DON’T GIVE A FUCK
I look out over the Olympic Village. Village Ha!
A couple of hundred thousand village idiots; that’s us.
Jed’s mate Lee comes round and we smoke some
weed, end up in bed. There’s an after glow from
a torched Ford Focus. So romantic; I know. Bless.
Could be a sign. Could be love. Slut love.
WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER
with white powder that we shove up our nose,
and if the Feds come knocking, we’ll have it on our toes.
And so it goes.
As it always has and always will
‘cos this ain’t Jerusalem, that’s a myth
like THINGS WILL ONLY GET BETTER
and WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER,
New Labour and Tory, it’s all
fucking JACKANORY, they’re just the Bedlam
cunts out for personal glory.
We’re just the baggage of collateral damage.
End of story.