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
He is here
at the end of my bed.
Preachers of that Old Time Religion battled the devil through the night in
He says, he just wants to talk.
Fuck, George. I'm tired.
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,
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
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
He's stacking shelves at the Food Bank
Bowls of Big Data and silver spoons
Open and shut cases
Wood lined corridors
I am in tatters holding a battered cup
Pennies for the guy
and nothing belongs.
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.
He is kneeling, praying
at Paris le Chaise circled by serpents and flaming torches, lillies and
Yes, he does their bidding.
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
The room is silent. Black,
the curtain drifts from the open window.
I am alone, my questions unanswered.