I cant stop writing like tapping your foot or slamming your head hard against wood.
They wouldnt say we’re “Very” poor , obesity can say for sure.
I crossed the line
I didn’t care to read the signs
disillusioned by all my rhymes
guilty of my sickly crimes.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial
waited for a little while
and through the crackling static said
go to the forth and baptize your head
with the spilled blood of the dead.
Would you rather see your taxes go
to a sick man
arise poor soul.
Or see your hard working honest gold.
Slide into a stoic MPs pocket.
Damn those civil servants too
the heartless policeman
the shitty nurse
the lawyer with a bulging purse.
I wouldn’t preach to being proud of the poor
oh for goodness sake will you shut the front door.
Your desperation has leaked all over my nice floor.
I feel guilty are words you’ve never said
My poems are all stained in red.
Surely the day will one day come
we’ll bleed our veins
for our little ones.
Oh you’ll be sorry
through the muffled silence
I think that is what he said
when your children are crying I’ll turn away my head.
And cruelly smile.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial.
You might recognise the title from the book love on the doal (Which I admitedly have not read) Currently Im living on benifits. I am poor. I think being a poor woman in The UK. Is probably the worst thing that can happen you. We fear poverty. We get nervous in exams because of it we fear being titled a
“bum” we fear drowning in what is the uks class system. Far from the life of oliver twist modern day poverty is maybe a little less brutal but still FUCKING AWFUL !! Its something you wouldnt wish on your worst enemy. Here are some points on why as much as much as the middle classes idelise our life of doing nothing all day and long lie ins why poverty in the UK is still the closest you will get to a living HELL!!
Not being able to drive – This is the first thing that makes life impossible. Having to hang around at bus stations is not something youd want to bring your children into. Aside from the dismal scottish weather. The whole situation of not having a car and having to travel on buses is very degrading and alienting.You somehow feel less. You are the underclass they label us as in the sociology classes at prestigious universitys. Somehow we are not human because of this fact.
Poor Housing – It seems that accedemics who have escaped their council houses which they were born wear it like a badge of honour. “I’m a working class acedemic” For the rest of us left on the estates of hell its not so cheary. Small cramped houses , damp coming through the roof and the constant lingering smell of ciggeretes for all us low class people who still smoke. I think in Britain we focus on becoming middle class too much.We forget about making life for the “working classes” more bearable in an attempt to maybe move up the ladder.
Money – Ah the thing that devides this country. Money. Living on the doal. Is practically a death sentence. I mean to the extreme right we are baisically useless burdens and may aswell be burnt at the stake like witches. We are all mennaces to society who didnt try hard enough at school and go around spending the countries money crowding up pubs and enjecting heroine into our veins , because of this somehow we “deserve” to be poor. Like the money guzzling tax evading , probably cocaine taking rich deserve to live in mansions. Right?
Food – I read an article recently on a couple who spent all their benfits on take aways A.K.A me. Why this made the news I do not no. I think it is just to make us look like fat useless burdens who should be living off gruel and packets of potatoes powder. Like let them spend their money on what they want. Theres not articles about analysing how middle class couples spent their money on shoes and wine and a car they cant even afford. Most of us “poor people” realistically live off cheese sandwhiches and thats a fact.
So the next time your about to judge someone on the doal think about theses things 🙂 We are suffering and it needs to end.
Ann lay with the sheets pulled up to her noes so that it covered her cheeks which were numbed from the cold. The darkness hung around her the silhouettes of what little objects she possessed lit up by a stream of pure light that slunk through a gap in the lace blinds that covered her window. She reached out running her slim fingers over the shaped holes in the yellowed material. A musty smell cast off them filling her lungs and making her splutter her throat burning. When she was little she’d had, the same sounding cough a great whooping one, one that made her father awaken from his sleep in the dead of night and run through to her bedroom to see if she was alright. Coughs weren’t the same when you were a child, it could have been scarlet fever or polio it sent her father into a state. If she ever had one he would run himself down accusing himself of not feeding them well enough, when in reality it was never the fault of an individual. Now her cough came from the city smog, the pollution off the factories that stuck to your skin and hair or the damp that grew from the walls where she was housed.
She rolled over, turning her back to the light and staring into the pitch black. She could feel the cold nip at her legs as she lay in only her thin vest, the thick blanket over her shoulders the only thing covering the vulnerability of her bare flesh. Not that long ago she had lay in this bed with another body whose strong arms had wrapped around her chest and whispered bliss into her ear with his warm sweet breath. She had caved in, in those moments safe in a gentleman’s arms. Just outside had lay the cruelty, poverty, decay and the selfish desperation of her fellow humans. Survivors only at the expense of another. No. She wasn’t good. No number of acts could make her pure. As no human was. We are simply animals run on fear and instinct, poisoned and diluted by intellect. No one individual was evil. Only a society could be that. A facade of the masses that hid the cruellest acts of torture, oppression, and evil in plain sight.
That night had been a one-night stand with a high ranked man in the forces. Not a working man from the pit or the site. He was not one who would be drinking in a pub around her bit. He wasn’t their “kind”. He had fair skin and hair along with clean manicured figure nails, and polished boots. A white-collar boy. He’d lured her to him. Slid up to her at the bar and made her laugh easily. Had her in the palm of his hand from the first sentence. It made her feel special that he’d picked her. She was nothing. He’d paid for her drinks and joined her at her table filling her with lager shandes after a Friday shift. They’d chatted and laughed for hours about the cold weather, his work and politics. She wasn’t very aware of politics. She’d heard rumours of the suffrage movement going on in the cities although had not seen much in the newspapers they tended to ignore it, didn’t like to give it the attention even if it be negative treated it as a disease they feared would spread. Here in a small industrial town most woman lived in the dark over the topic. She knew her older brother voted liberal the party in power at present. And whenever he talked about it he would swear a lot. This man was a member of the conservative party and said for a fact there was to be a war. She’d dismissed it as guff. They’d never be a war. Not now with all the new technology, bombs and artillery they had nowadays. They weren’t that stupid. They’d kill us all. At eleven the pub was closing up and they had been thrown out by the barman with the other late-night stragglers. A group of men from the pits, a lone chubby man, and a thin ragged alchy. Outside the rain had been pissing it down and they’d made a spur decision to seek shelter at the bookies. He’d placed a bet on one of the horses in her name chucking on ten pound the equivalent of three months’ wages. “It will win” he’d announced. He’d a confidence and asserted way to him she’d marvelled at. He held himself up straight. There seemed to her no doubt that plagued his mind. Not like them here where they doubted themselves constantly wither they could put food on the table or heat their frail bones, constantly straining to not sink to the bottom.
For Treason In the innocent they find
before they can even speak
they shut them up behinde locked doors
the handle out of reach.
They dull their minds with burning whisky
broken and battered by men
I wish that I could say im proud
of a land steeped in aridity.