The Chauncellor

He's round the back smoking crack with underage girls

Writing heartache manifestos

we'll roll up our sleeves and say “bloody”

smiling on production lines

holding up his little red box.

 

The room is silent

black.

He is here

at the end of my bed.

Preachers of that Old Time Religion battled the devil through the night in
their rooms.

He says, he just wants to talk.

Fuck, George. I'm tired.

Party lines.

He tells me he's changed

and there is the bind.

 

Pulling the covers up to my chin, I say tell me about Trident

He tells me he saw his mother, Felicity Alexandra Loxton-Peacock

swallowing war heads with her teeth in one hand and the other hand free,

just waving.

He tells me he's lept over hedges and caught foxes by a hare's breadth.

He tells me he counts the cost, he holds the chain,

He smiles, his teeth are scissors.

 

I'm standing in the ballot box with cornflakes in my mouth.

Good morning Britain.

His breath on my neck.

There's Richard and Judy! 

Judy is crying; Richard looks embarrassed.

It's something to do with hedge funds. I don't understand.

 

There's Maggie and Reagan waltzing at a tea dance.

She is suck-sucking the fat marrow out of the bricks and mortar,

wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Head back and beaming.

 

I'm not a deficit, I mumble. I've got no teeth.

George's mother has got my teeth.

I have no fight, no bite. I am not a predator.

I cannot keep up, compete, finish what I am trying to say.

 

Tell me again George, tell me the one about making work pay.

He cups my face in his hands

and blood runs out of me.

I am a bleeding Madonna and there is no Christ.

milk bottles fill up.

One – two – three 

There. 

My six year old self smiling at a prostitute, street light on her skin. It was all teenagers outside the off license, stray cats and dole office queues, innocent prayers and Father Christmas at the
Co-op.

George.

He's stacking shelves at the Food Bank

Bowls of Big Data and silver spoons

Small society

big C

Open and shut cases

Wood lined corridors

I am in tatters holding a battered cup

Pennies for the guy

Workhouse slop

and nothing belongs.

 

George, Osbourne

He is standing outside Argos holding up stars.

Aim your sling shot wishes and miss every time.

He is singing 'you and me, we can light up the stars, if you stay by my
side, we can rule the world'

I can't believe it. He's quoting a Take That song.

 

George

He is kneeling, praying

at Paris le Chaise circled by serpents and flaming torches, lillies and

Yes, he does their bidding.

 

George

He is at the picket line handing out sausage rolls

He is dancing in a Spanish villa

He is on horseback, baying

for blood, blood letting and baying

and there is no such thing as a silent scream

town squares and shopping malls and he returns my gaze

to the screen

They are counting the wheels of the gurneys in mortuary wards

while opinion polls cast lots for his robes

and
nothing

works.

 

The room is silent. Black,

the curtain drifts from the open window.

I am alone, my questions unanswered.