"Backhanded," "Keep Repeating," and "Rear view"

Backhanded 

Yet another purse owned 

by the many now plundered,

they scrape what is left 

with fingers stained with 

blood and lint, another 

excuse preached through 

a sermon of semantics,

to the point where we question

the point of retaliation.

And from that castle turret,

which overlooks the crumbling

red brick walls, the litter

covered pavements 

that gleam in this sun,

like stained glass windows,

yet another outcome 

of folly, passing as informed 

decisions.

And when the final lie

rolls from their overworked

mouths, spouting off the cuff

pedantry masquerading 

as patriotism, a final slip

of the tongue leaves 

them now without cover,

exposing them to the point 

where they are now ours for the taking. 

Keep Repeating 

It leaks from cupboard 

doors and from unopened 

wage slips, the drips penetrate

each surface, but slowly,

like diluted acid; a slow burn

that turns to acceptance,

once damage is done.

As always, it is sold to us

in dregs, and of course,

it’s always for our own good..

Any complaint is left to sink

and disintegrate, the fragments 

and residue ingrained into 

the teeth of their smiles.

The same outcome each time,

a demanding of gratefulness,

gifts of spinal columns wrapped 

in torn five-pound notes,

which if returned, they hand 

back to their predecessors,

and again stating it’s just

all in a day’s work.

Rear view 

A blast of a broken sky,

that never truly illuminates 

this field enough to cut through

the gloom. A cold breeze

offering a backdraft 

against knuckles on handlebars,

frostbite without the chance

of defrosting; a loss of limbs,

a small price for an inverted

cause that never reaches 

an end.

The echoes of lost mentors 

now strangled against underpass

walls, now too old and faded,

their lessons now superfluous 

against the current backdrop;

and of course, the one being

lectured can always do better,

a time and place languishing 

gently against their own 

failings.

And the same crowd gathers,

at the feet of this path, 

who walk the same frayed

tightrope. It’s obvious now,

that with age comes the fear

of capture, and succumbing 

to a blatant idleness, 

which masks itself as discipline, 

yet only appears as smugness.