The day death took a holiday

Twenty-three years
four hundred and fifty
thousand pages of evidence
locked in an airless room
to put to rest
ninety-six people.

Forty-two ambulances
sat like hot dog vans
outside Hillsborough
to ignore the screams
while South Yorksire’s finest
stood transfixed
licking their lips
their nemesis dying
in front of their eyes
trapped in a cage.

They must have thought
it was their lucky day
as eyes popped out of skulls
without even hitting them,
scousers pleading for help
joking back at them
with air-kisses
and waves goodbye
as each drowned
one by one
in mass asphyxiation.

Twenty-three years
of hopeless suicides,
family dysfunction
guilt
rage
injustice
and alcoholic hell.

Otherwise ordinary men
taunted and goaded
as pathetic paranoid
delusional conspiracy theorists
slumped over tables
death-eyed
alone in the black and white hole
renamed ‘self-pity city’
by the press and senior plod
who re-oxygenated
every last breath
of the people
they despised
for peanuts and pride.

There’s a very scary character
smiling in the dark
and he’s looking at you
right now
so take your last coke
out of the greasy fridge
wink at your smiley friend
and count yourself lucky
it’s not your daughter upstairs
being pummelled
out of her mind
by the dirty shits
you laugh with
for free kebabs
before you hunt down others
to put to bed
in your bright little hotel,
more easy-pickings
to tot up your quota.
Do you do it for kicks?

You
the lawgivers
who sneer at conscience
and seek out the confused
to deflect the truth
of your record
as the highest rated
child abusers
sexual maniacs
domestic violators
and THIEVES
in the country.

And you expect us
to respect you?

Here’s to you too,
Mackenzie
and your distinguished
police officials,
start watching your sun-baked backs
and put those silver medals
in a safe place
because you won’t be needing them
where you’re going.

Your time has come
and death has had his holiday.