Tag Archives: social issues

Mannequin

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As a mannequin in a shop window, at which people stare,
She stands in the glare
Of the bedroom light.
Once, such things did excite.
Now all is null
Or on occasions, he
Takes a dull,
Almost professional interest in yet another she.

Gazing at the girl, in her birthday suit
He thinks on the route
Cause of his obsession with mannequins.
Loneliness or sins?
Where begins
A man’s cursed traverse
Of the path to the ever lasting bonfire
Where desire
Ends in mechanical sport
With a mannequin bought
Out of boredom.
He knows there is no true joy in hoardom
For him or her.
Still, in despair
He takes a half-hearted pleasure there.

Crack

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Wrap
music. Crack,
Discordant sound.
Young men who think they have something profound
To express
Impress
Girls near cracking point.

Lyrics disjoint.
I don’t see the point
But then I am from the right side of the street
And do not meet
Those who make up for what they lack
With Crack.

Hard men
Go down when
Those with faster toys
Mow down boys.
A crack
And all goes black
For one who once did wrap.

I am of a certain background
And have nothing profound
To say
As I overhear a girl who does wrap
Along
To the song
Of Crack.

What Does It Mean To Be A Teen?

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What does it mean
To be a teen?
At sixteen one may smoke
But may not buy
This means to die,
Which some may say is a joke.

One may not star in films obscene
Until the age of eighteen,
Though sex at sixteen is OK
With a guy
Where the difference in years
Will bring tears
To a parents eyes.
Such is the law in the UK today.

—

In the UK it is legal to smoke at sixteen but illegal to sell or gift tobacco products to anyone aged under eighteen.
Until 2003 it was permissible for those aged sixteen to feature in pornographic material. While the age of sexual consent remains at sixteen, the age at which teenagers may legally appear in pornographic films etc is set at eighteen. It is, however perfectly legal for a man (or woman) in their eighties to have sexual relations with a person aged sixteen.
Some may agree with Mr Bumble that “the law is an ass”.

Stripping Bare

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How easy to perceive the bear
In his lair,
Waiting for the girl who, having tentatively climbed the stair
Enters there.
He doesn’t care
And will have his way
The wagging fingers say.

Wine is opened
And trite
Words at night
Are spoken,
But there is no force.
The evening runs it’s course.
More trite words are said
Then, bed.

Morning breaks.
Her leave she takes
With a kiss on the cheek, not lips
That strips
The situation bare
Yet there
Is in that peck, perhaps a kind of care.

The Internet of Things

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“The Blackbird on the wing, so sweetly sings
And brings
Joy to we two
Who
Through
These wild flowers
Walk and talk,
Whiling away many an hour”.

But she put no store
In my words
Nor in the singing of the birds,
Which went unheard,
For the ring
She wore
Was connected to the Internet of Things.

Old School Caps

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“We spread rumours about the man above then, when he is replaced …”.
Being blind, I can not see his face.
His voice says private school.
The man’s a fool.
A girl’s upper middle class laugh brays
In response to what he says.

I think of dorms
And cricket on the lawns.
I dwell on old school caps
And half educated prats.
A harsh judgement perhaps
For we all lapse
From time to time
When wine
Gets our tongue
And inane songs are sung.

I went to a boarding school.
No doubt played the fool
And disregarded the rule.
So why so critical of my fellow man?
Who can
In honesty say
They have their days in virtue spent
And do not repent
Of a foolish word said
When alcohol has clouded the head?

London

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Lost in the crowd.
London’s voice loud.
The traffic screeches.
A man preachs.
His voice reachs
The birds.
Words.
A mobile phone.
People alone
Walk
And talk.
Something is bought.
A train is caught.
Newspapers russle.
A homeless man bussles
Along.
The same sad song
“I have no pay
And nowhere to stay.
Spare some change to help me today”.
People look away.
As just another day
Slowly trundles away.

Fragile

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Sadness
And madness
Bares fruit
On the London commute.
“White people think we live in trees.
Please
Tell
How I ring the bell”.
She is unwell
Her mind full of some song
Of real or imagined wrong.
“Stolen from Africa” she says.
Soon we will go our separate ways.
Her days
Full of god knows what.
The train stops
And she gets off.
Has there been racism in this lady’s life?
Or is it some other strife
That made her rant and shout
As we travellers went about
Our daily commute.
I can not get to the root
of it
A mind shattered into bits.

This morning while traveling on the train, a lady who described herself as coming from Zimbabwe addressed her fellow commuters. Among other things she said that white people believe Africans still live in trees and asked that someone tell her how to ring the bell (the communication cord to stop the train).
I don’t know what was going on in this lady’s head (no one had said anything to provoke her outburst) and I can only conclude she is in need of medical help.

Country Places

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Books in oak cases,

Country places.

Grandfather clocks tick,

The squire leans upon his stick.

A gun dog through the bracken scrambles,

After him the squire ambles.

 

—

 

Neon advertising signs,

Clubbers drunk on wine.

Half dressed girls sway on unsteady feet,

Trying to keep to the beat.

Fruit machines flash,

After knife wielding thugs the police dash.

 

—

 

In his study the squire sits,

from a glass of fine brandy he sips.

The dog his hand licks,

Elsewhere society falls to bits.