Friday, 19 November 2010

Poem: Don't Go Outside


Because there's kids

all scissorheads, blade-eyes,

machete hoods

and skin impervious to your reasonable begging

as they wave the pre-cutting knife

in a goodbye to your drained face.

They're behind every corner,

in every shop,

unstamped shouting on every high street.

And there's concrete abode blocks

hammering your daymares

and roughly fucking your nightmares...

They fester there:

squmbed, illiterate,

brains pinching violent,

they'll leave you hangtwitching down as a

blood-faced alarm.

Wake up!

They've got no topdown,

felt no crush we've mustered,

brains rusted away to the core of primeval war.


Because metalled eyes

are tracking your every atom's shake,

controlled by the tentacles

of the bored and the sleepless.

A ceaseless, unforgiving, frigid gaze.

A coldly objective narrative

that squeezes everything you dream

into a storyline where nothing ever happens.

You're their target practice,

because a CCTV camera that fires bullets

is better known as a sniper rifle.


The every day bill boards,

advertising with big-titted, six-packed retinas

that laser into your very soul.

knowing all your fears and insecurities

so you drop to your knees

and pray

to touch self-appointed gods

and every time you stare into the mirror

you look at the fatness,

the thin-ness,

the pus globe spots,

the yellow tinged teeth,

the crooked nose,

the ugly, sexless future

and you fantasise about smash-fist-bloody

and wiping the tears away with the broken glass.


because there's black Jewish jihadist terrorists

crawling towards your lawn

with broken fingers

and a battered, jealous homeland

here to steal

everything you've worked for,

everything you love.

They'll pull their plug,

drain your taxes

then stick that plug in your daughter

and she'll fucking love it.


Because in the faceless warehouse in the ashen field

where all your secrets and dreams are kept from you

the hard skinned finger tips

are flicking through your file as we speak,

brushing off the dust,

a grin leering over your mug shot,

pawing at the photo of you leaving your house,

coldly debating the tests they've run on you

when those pale guys came over and

did something with your water supply

while you pick at the mysterious sores

and wonder where they came from.


No, not even for a little bit.

There's something muttering just outside the door.

The psychodisco lights are swirling and blinding.

The police stop you in the street,

search you all over,

legal rough brown fisting and

hand you a receipt and all it says is


written in your own handwriting.

Take the advice.

The contamination's fucking rife,

burning everything in its path:

the firestorm of everything that isn't you.

Protect yourself!

Red cross signing the plague

replaced by crosshairs.

One pull and you're quarantined forever.

Keep the lights on.

Tuck yourself in.

and sleep tight.