P.U.B.

 

You're just another pissed-up bigot,

gatekeeping life for those living.

Claiming another's existence is wrong

as it doesn't fit your frame of reality -

a glazed screen into a warped image

of your own inadequacies.

 

You pull out the odd Bible quote,

You saw it once on a Facebook post,

it repeated your own view back at you.

 

So it must be true.

 

Even though you devoutly devote

your praise to only yourself.

Praise be. To our saviour. Narcissus the great.

For you are the font of all knowledge -

or at least you believe this as truth -

a view held by people who

can't see real truth, as their view

only mirrors the lies of which they spew.

 

As if your hands

have ever touched a book.

Ever felt its matte cover,

pulled that scent of

wood pulp and vanilla

into your lungs.

 

For if they did, you'd see the lies

written to keep others in line -

lines written by men like you,

a lie as old as time.

 

Difference is sneered upon,

while you ignore the travesties

printed on those same pages.

 

Your hands have

only felt the print of a magazine

filled with naked ladies,

reading the headlines

one

stuttered

word

at

a

time.

 

“You are not one of us,”

another red face shouts at the waves.

As if the sea is the enemy,

stop boats they scream,

yet they miss the irony - the Vikings,

the Romans, time after time.

 

My friend, lend me your ears for

we are all immigrants of this world.

And if you picked up

one of those books I mentioned

you may realise this.

 

Are you the sole remaining

true British bloodline?

 

I think not.

 

Just another pissed-up bigot,

pissed off that the world doesn't

deliver what you want,

when you don't even know

what it is that you want -

just what others say you should want.

 

An empty vessel then, not a font.

 

You don't ask the right questions,

blame the correct men,

or put in your dues to

correct the course this ship is sailing.

 

You dig deeper into the soil,

rooting yourself in a truth

that holds no soul -

just a stagnant hole

that feeds itself more poison

until it weeps septic tears

into the same ground, soaking

them in to repeat the cycle.

 

Who are you trying to convince

with these words you utter?

Your body may work one way,

but who the fuck

are you to judge another?