COLD

 

     Such a sedate journey,

The one six three from Manchester to Bury -

Taking in all modern sights Ken Loach

And the Ward Brothers claim in fame,

     And the top deck don’t half

Smell so sweet,

     The green pungent air -

Turning your ‘guts’ inside out

And provoking a whitey -

(A rizla a roach a green with the baccie).

    

     I’m listening to Dael by Autechre,

Their skinny selves coming from within

The borough that brought the child

Snatchers and Margaret Thatchers

Yoppies - not Yuppies,

     And I’m drifting off to

A space outside the race

We call human,

 

2.

 

     We call it human,

Yet the Chinnook could only carry

So much bread,

Only the one water bowser

To feed a murdered peoples –

And I’m there large-ing it in Kurdistan

With her majesties finest

From the poorest estates

Where the kindest feed

The dope as hope escalates

To different norms

And different forms of prison,

     And I could,

I could just do ecstasy

Even with its modular kick

Reminding you of diamond white

On streets where Haitch is in

Short supply,

     And I hear Hollywood,

Is looking for a new manuscript!

 

     Supply and demand

Mister 18 Brigade,

Supply and demand big brother blue,

Supply and demand where the children

Fight like actors on stage,

Kicking fuck out of their kindred -

For sweetness of ego their parents

Projected by following examples

Of bastards,

     Soliciting freely the sum of their rage.

 

3.

 

     Swept back from reverie,

The bus sets off again outside

The school in the under-league table

And I’m smiling while inhaling the green,

Glancing at the kids in play,

     Then all is quiet -

The green meaning nothing

As I’m witness to a young persons

      kicking,

His assailant large-ing the Hollywood Crew,

 

     The blows rain down on the child on the ground,

And I’m banging the window and

Screaming for help,

     But the dinner ladies and

Teachers are afraid to ask,

Watching in earnest the bully at play,

 

4.

 

     The bus continues its journey,

The driver un-phased by all he has seen,

For in Manchester,

The Wards and the Loach

All have statements to make,

While Christ and his God

Watch from a distance,

Watch with binoculars

With smiles of hate.

 

5.

 

     From Congleton to Blackley,

Langley and Darnhill,

They fight with themselves

In a city that’s ill,

And the 163 be a bus

I’ll never forget,

Driving past fresh corpses -

I just couldn’t help,

     And it’s eight miles of murder,

Eight miles of neglect,

Eight mile high

On a bus with the best!

 

Michael J Waite 15th July 2015.

 

Music by Autechre. Track entitled Dael from the album Tri Repatae, Biggups and thank you.