Militant Thistles

polemical poetry to prickle the politics of "permanent austerity"

atos Poor Doors Sheriff Stars spikes

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle bedroom tax Disrupt and Upset

David R. Mellor

So many are falling from the skies, of comfortable lives

 

So many are falling from the skies, of comfortable lives

Until between the clouds, we can see me and you

Drinking in the bar one minute

Then outside Tesco

Mouths ajar

 

So many are breaking up inside

Falling from the skies,

Of comfortable lives

 

Passing the credit cards

Trying to grasp Universal Credit

Fingertips touching their children

On the way down

Landing with crash

At their door

Now repossessed

With someone else inside

 

So many are slipping through the cracks

Of this freezing land

Perishing in doorways

No hope insight  

Except your hand

 

 

 

Kensington and Chelsea

 

Sleep well tonight

With your burning

Log fire

 

Scurrying and searching

For that vintage caviar

 

A steaming shower

Cooled with luxury cosmetics

Burning your Botox lips

 

Sleep well tonight

Holding on to those

Curled up in fresh satin sheets

 

But what troubles you?

You don’t want the poor

Living in a block of flats next door

Well, now you don’t have to worry about that anymore

David R. Mellor was born in 1964, (Liverpool, England) difficult birth, didn't find his voice until my youth. Years of thinking he was nobody and treated as such. However, hit the paper papering over the scars. Found understanding and belief through words. He has been published and performed widely from the BBC, The Tate, galleries and pubs and everything in between. His poems are autobiographical, others topical and several his take on life.

Street Scene

 

 

That’s a tanning studio

That’s a chippy

That’s a tanning studio

 

That’s a hairdressers

 

Empty shop

Empty shop

Empty shop

 

That’s a smoke free Wetherspoons

 

That’s a closed pub

That’s a closed pub

That’s a closed pub

 

That’s a couple strapped

for cash

 

That’s a family next door

whose giro

couldn’t last

 

That’s a fake tan

That’s a discarded chip paper

That’s another fake tan

 

That’s just a street

come to the end

Hillsborough 96

 

 

Pissed on

Shit upon

Stolen our pride

Fiddling the statements

Of those that you let die

 

Gone past the cut off point of caring

Who was left in the pile?

 

Leaving the ambulances revving

No need to push through

They’re only football supporters not like me and you

 

Conceited and arrogant blaming the dead for dying

Hats off to those who never gave up trying.