The choir at the bus stop –
Sopranos of crotchety old women
And baritones of prickly old men –
Is getting ready for work again.
After years of practice
They have perfected scowls;
Complaining about the weather,
Complaining about their bowels,
And smelling like packed anchovies,
Like dank socks,
And sweaty cheese.
It’s the rain, they say,
That makes them feel this way.
Good weather for ducks.
And so, a raft of quacks
They have become,
With honks and barks,
And hoots and hisses
And croaks and grunts,
Singing their complaints
Of today’s service.
I can still remember what love felt like,
When winter became a warm spring day
And the streets were filled with
Children twirling parasols,
When everything was as delicate
As a butterfly in my hand,
Launching into the summer breeze,
And crisp autumn leaves
Cha cha’ed beneath our feet.
Those are no longer mine.
Winter’s cold embrace
Has torn through my heart and soul
Like a butcher’s hacking blade.
And I can never taste love again.
You took my heart and put it in a museum,
Replaced the hangings on the walls
And the coal fired stoves
With microwaves and lies
On the 6 o’clock news.
Even after 6 generations you
Still sound like snakes hissing
With forked tongues.
The rope around my father’s neck
Made from decades of rubbish and dog shit
Left on the streets
Has stolen the ground upon which I stand.
This, is all in the name of land,
Which is now yours.
“You’re a racist,” he said. “And racists don’t get jobs here.” Tom swallowed. Nobody fucking calls me a racist, he thought. The interviewer started to put Tom's papers back into the brown manila folder. “And I’m gonna report you for discrimination,” Tom said. The interviewer laughed as he closed the folder. “You hate faggots,” Tom continued trying to force the point home. The interviewer smirked, “You haven’t got a leg to stand on.” “I’ll have these,” Tom said, and quickly took the papers and ran from the building. It had been two weeks since the interview with the faggot [...]