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POEM: Anonymous concrete

British-born poet and artist John Lawson expresses his reaction to this week's Brexit vote to have England leave the European Union.
Anonymous concrete

touch I say

touch and go listen to

the empty tin can rattle


smudge the wedding confetti

washed against the curb

smudge the ruffled coats

pinned to the ground

laced in booze

talking to themselves


hear the wind whip yester daze news

hear the streets choke with beginners luck

here the fear is printed in the papers

believing passengers move with hidden cargos

strapped on a sleeve and photo shopped to believe

what is built to survive requires religion and fences

before another bombed out child dies

before ever being conceived


hear the click clicking heels of the bankers play thing

watch a gold chain grip on his limp wet wrist

wind up wind down

pull away the chords

let the blinds go

as fake austerity sets in with frozen eyes

blinking in reptilian greed


hear the deaf groan for sound

dangling on a buckle in remote control

dangling in a world on digitalized pendulum clocks

tick tock tock tick

half past ready to drop

with ever approaching speed


hear the rush of the old men vomit

grown sick from lack of welfare

and unpayable insurance fees

there seems to be oh so much

and yet oh so little time to

send them all back to who knows where


touch I say

touch and go listen to

as young girls leave their chalk rooms

with dressed up skirts about to be stained

on grass in the locker

or behind the proverbial bike shed


again the question of importance

before mother arrives

tightly dressed in heels

an older version yet far less tamed

mimicking the adverts

and the bankers play thing


and fashion changes

fashion beats

the chance to enslave

foreign rag dolls

to bend and stretch

around tattooed cocks

ringed in vice with a royal flush


listen to the flag rope hitting the flag pole

no flag is in sight

and yet we all wave


hear the flag rope hit the flag pole

perhaps it has been stolen

or missing in action


here the shop windows are no longer dressed

to rumors of a bargain

and much needed goods

offering false promises to the promised child

whose broken lips

press against shattered glass


here again

on a bench in the park

derelict men pipe over old print

reminiscing oh to be youthful they wheeze

unable to acknowledge germ warfare

starts with a sneeze


here a hotel room is no safer than my pockets

here I can taste the salt on pickled fish eyes


here I have no time to notice

is it rain is it snow

as I tighten the collar

around my sore throat


here again i can no longer question

what is really important

as a tattooed fist

punches out a time clock

for the very last time

before the anonymous concrete

spews forth its soul

onto the cracked pavement

buckled and used up

with a question mark grinning

as the anchor lets go


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