A bulldozer of truth

 

They say

this place is dead,

but I see

a big difference

I see the future ahead,

I see life

dancing

to every beat

of the heart

of this vibrant

colourful city.

The art scene

bringing the paint

in a

great wash

over the

dirt and grime.

 

The poets

articulating

veracity in

every word

they say,

in some

antics

of word

play they

get mouthy

to bring forth

a bulldozer of truth

crashing

through walls of

hateful distorted noise.

Bulldozing the past

for bright new future days

still to play.

 

The music making

the place bounce

and sway, as they

shake the

bloodstained

foundations, from punk to jazz,

to hip hop collabs.

This is not death,

but rebirth.

A retaking

of the earth

from those that

want it soiled

in spoiled thoughts

that they see as 2funky

for them.

 

They scream

about zombie towns,

about the down and outs.

Hate hidden as insight.

Outcry at anything new.

Stuck in a past that was

stained in misuse and abuse.

But now the seeds

are being planted

in communal gardens,

and new playgrounds,

so that a diverse

flowering future

can come true.

Plants vs zombies.

The plants always win.

Under the boot

 

Hate arrives

like bad tides

on a storm surge.

A purge of hope,

as those toxic

waters rise.

The hate lies

not in those on boats,

but the disillusioned inhabitants 

of this island cesspit.

 

Can you hear the jack boots marching?

And are you okay with that?

 

Fascist right barking hate

over a dissolutioned fractured state,

the weakened left, aching and bereft,

at the breaking waves.

 

As peace flows away

in the wake of frothing rage,

dissolved hope is left to feed

a growing seething inside,

but all we are getting are scraps,

and the last remnants of optimism

flows over the gates.

 

Does it make it better for you,

this deluded view?

Is your life better

if everyone else falls

under the boot?

 

Don’t you realise that

you will be next

to be trodden down?

 

From behind your picket fence

can you hear those hateful rants?

Marching chants, as the rage rises

at anyone that doesn’t

mirror your own face.

Do you stand scared, or do you

wear your teeth bared at anyone

that looks different to you?

And as the country falls

deeper into shit and the blame shifts,

those who cheer for this

will be next in the target sights.

 

For hate is never satisfied.

and those boots

will march over your rights.

Along for the ride

 

My heart is a roadmap

of stories, woven from

shooting stars and

wistful dreams.

 

A canvas bag,

threaded from memories

and ideals, lays on the floor

beside my feet.

Inside I store

the contents of my head.

My notepad, and a set of

discarded scraps of faded yesterday's.

 

I lay dozing.

Slumped in the passenger seat.

of a car I don’t recognise,

watching through dreamy eyes

the stories formed in blustery

summer skies.

 

I’m just along for the ride.

 

Driver unknown to me.

I’m just watching the

over-excited countryside

showing me all of its stories

in a speed through

flipbook view of forever.

 

Outside blurs into my

dreams seamlessly,

and I drift away.

 

Life they say is a dream,

and I’m living mine in the halo

of sunlight that speaks to me.

 

As the world blurs along.

The driver speaks in a whisper,

a singsong voice saying

"Keep turning your pages,

you are on the right road.

This life is golden, and the

stories are there to behold."

 

Wherever forever lies

there will always be

bountiful sunrises

and beautiful skies.

 

The driver speaks one last time

in a tenors tone

“You've reached your

destination, that will be £10.”

I hand over a tenner note.

And I’m right where I began,

at home with my pen in my hand.