Of Winter Afternoons in 2023
They clap-boarded high
street pubs decades ago
to make way for fucking
Littlewoods, BHS, Wilko
but they’re dead, no more
and time will blow
through each sodden gutter,
each held out hand,
is praying that those
oppressors soon will land
because it doesn’t get
much worse than this.
Your weathered Brexiteers
are permagreyed
and beaten up; trip on
thinning sleeping bags,
unpocketing vinegary hands
is a bloody drag
but tonight thank God it's them. Hearts heaving,
grieving, running our road
between this and that,
you’re bunkered in for the
New Year’s; you’re sat
with lover's dross, make
unmerry and raw regret,
drifting thoughts to me,
for you can never forget
what of the chances?
Here is no landing for love,
wring out wrought hearts and
suck on your gloves.
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