To the sound of screaming,
turns the eyes and the ears of the ordinary
agape in horror at the desperation of a jumper
as he splashes through the glass
fixing a final flickering gaze on tear-welling faces who,
with tightened lips let pass a whimper “oh no, oh no oh no”.
The rain of rock crashes chase away trivial reality,
the lattes, the must-do meetings,
the synchronization of calendars
in a kerosene flash; thanks to religious brutality.
There, urgent amongst the
surging clouds are those in
black turned gray. Gold-hatted
knights who shout for your own good.
Scared like the brokers,
fathers like the chairmen,
rushing like the insurers
but they choose to run the other way.

Inspired by the photos in this collection.

Toes down, scuffing,
the half-walk, half-carry of
the dawn doomed.
The carriers huffing,
with straining curses
wrist under arm, between
arm, down to The Place.
Sunlight is peeking
through these bloody hills
and streams like a white dust
amongst the trees.
Picturesque and beautiful
for this ugliness
as the boots judder
onwards sullenly
and buck against
the tree roots for the
sake of resistance.

Up and up past the chicken
wire.  Hairy string, tight
against bleaching skin,
tied behind cruelly;
a shuddering hunch of a back
buried in the dirty coarseness of
the square-shouldered
coat.

A quiet sobbing, mutters,
regrets, toes down, scuffing.
Legs idling and too weak with
fear to support even this
sad sack of humanity.

Rough hands push back towards
the post and bend wires against
and through rings.  Pulled
erect but sagging against
restraint.  Humble tears drip
weakly, and a croaky whispering
begins.  Futility.  Humility.
“I was just scared Lord, so so
scared”.
Blurry arms are raised and
point for his last time.
Brutality is a noisy bang
that makes the morning birds
jump from their perches.
Two shots and he slumps
towards the ground against
the pain; and the dirty square
coat starts to slowly darken
and stain.
Quieter now, rasping:
“I was just, scared”,
then, laboured: “so so
scared”.

Whipped and struck,
hands stretched out high.
Crucifix posture
perverted for shame.
Hooded, beaten, taunted
decried.
On wooden altar, frozen in time
portrait depiction, captured crime.
Tortured?
Belittled?
Unjustified harm.
Purposed, permissioned
commissioned, but why?
Imagined resistance
unproved existence,
deniable, conscionable
victim afar,
a renditioned non-person,
an Arab attar.
Who will pay dearly?
Who stops the buck?
Why do we let them
continue this muck?
What is the reason
and wherefores or why?
Who cries the tears that
never can dry?
Who points the fingers,
without shred of blame?
We are all victims but
share guilt the same.

Marching men who sound out songs
and epithets like the “happy throng”
the “band of brothers” and “alpha force”
ignore the facts as a matter of course
that war is bad and people die
and tragedy is what makes us cry
not actor’s looks or the jutting chins
of handsome heroes with perfect grins.

He sings of government bullets
anti-democratic killers
hiding behind brutal units.

The words are words of defiance
bravery, rebellion and non-compliance.
Epitets that kick sand in the eyes
of the money-grabbing political liars
who "bed their women" whilst preaching to the people
from their crooked church
without even a crooked steeple.

No money for our nurses or councils,
but taxation increases and a creeping of powers
whilst they plan and plot in their ivory towers
and take us to war against our wishes
telling us it’s not about an oil field’s riches.

Smiling at babies and pointing and spinning
killing real people (not soldiers)
we lose the war
but they say we’re winning.
In their shiny suits and toothy grin
killing for profit is the ultimate sin.

Look around and ask all your neighbours
"did you vote for this war?"
Don’t ask the newspapers.
The journos and cameras
are tainted by greed
who believe that tits,
and free ‘lotto’
are all that we need.

And did you notice our digital telly?
Adverts for fast food
that poisons your fat belly.
A nation of wobblers who will die young
killed by commercials more deadly than a gun.

Out of town monsters
with free parking,
and cheap hamsters
who cut prices and wages
and file glorious profits
as they kill off our small corners
and fulfil the doom prophets
with fruit out of season
and huge tins of chocolates
that promise a gorging
that goes beyond reason.

…and we all file in.
…and we force them to win.
…and we accept our lot.
We’re "pleased with what we’ve got"
and we ignore all the nonsense
and run long, daft runs
to ease our concience.

We call it, food preparation.
They call it, work.
We pay bottom dollar.
They take it, no perks.

Starvation, close our eyes.
Exploitation, close our eyes.
Cry baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

We tut at a slow Google.
We curse the providers and the phones.
We skip over pictures of
little kid factories
filled with skinny baggy bones.

Child labour, close our eyes.
Rusting water, close our eyes.
Fry baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

We shout foul at 2 pounds per litre
for our tax-heavy fun
fill up on sweeties and slurp fantasy coffees
and switch the sat nav to stun.

Mugabe, close our eyes.
Famine, close our eyes.
Die baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

How awful does your life have to be
that a suffocating truck
and an insecure future
is a better option?
The life of English riley,
washing cars,
packing boxes,
minimum wage.

Cattle trucks, roll and rattle trucks,
cross the border bitten by the frost trucks.

Desparation, close our eyes.
Separation, close our eyes.
My baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

We call them parasites,
send them back to face their fate
clerical errors, statistical oversights.

Torture, close our eyes.
Guilt, close our eyes.
Bye baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

This is where they swang their ropes,
jumped in time to tunes they sang,
skipped their feet and clapped out
the beat: “one, two, buckle my shoe”.

Oh, and here there stood a climbing frame,
they used to climb and play some game
on turrets they conjured in their mind
of far-off castles and knights of old
they’d heard in bed-time stories
their parents told.

Across that path, behind the wire
(or course in those days it was not on
fire) there stood a type of slide
on which they’d glide and scream
with breathless joy “look, I’m
fast, whee!”

Ah, and here, amongst the rubble,
you can just make out, the shape of
of the old swinging boat. With seven
places for happy faces; it bucked and
jived and tossed about.

Here, just here, the boys marched up and
down; team blue, team green, marking time,
“to attention”, faking guns
with their hands. Girls did girl
things, which boys didn’t understand,
they didn’t mix which seemed
just fine.

Look, beyond the stains, by the last of
the sheds is the line where you
had to wait when break was over
or got to school late.
They used to poke and push and
stand in single file and girls would
giggle all the while
so teacher would “shoosh”.

They didn’t know then that they were free,
they scraped their shins and tore their shorts
and got muddy knees from simple things.
Knights fought dragons and always won,
just there, by the slides and the
turrets of the castle-come-climbing-frame.
Do you see?

They kicked balls across the playground
and played tig and run-around and
kiss-chase in the sunshine, just there
by that stack of marker stones. They played
conkers on the corner (moved away from
all the windows) and rubbed dock on
the stings from the nettles.
They were innocent. Do you see?