My father's son
Steel sharpened to a razor point, used as a blade,
On a day when I was a boy, you a man,
Shards of glass stain still this young boy's blood -
Try grabbing the sharpness of glass as you fall,
Bloody hands sliding down a wall.
At this moment held in perpetuity
A thirty-second item on the local evening news
Framed in the mind of the viewers by stereotypes of blame:
Deserving and undeserving poor all the same
Now added to by ethnicity, age.
Samuel Smiles' Victorian fear of the poor and disdain for those "who do not help themselves"
Persists amongst the securely-housed suburban middle-class.
Truth is: the further from the violence-government-inflicted squalor we live the more we fear
Like the worried-well, clogging up the arteries of the NHS, with their petty aches and pains.
The compacent self-obsessed bastards whose selfishness I disdain.