IT'S A BATTLEFIELD
On our loss
is a battlefield.
The same crime
every time.
Is it possible that
all we’ll have left
is the wind and rain,
words scratched on
a wall, in a language
no one understands.
How is it the same life?
A stupid question,
with no answer except
pen and paper.
If someone writes
the truth about our time,
they couldn’t help
leave a masterpiece.
So many foreigners
parking on verges,
building homes
on our bones.
The cure for depression
is a heavy blanket -
some say of lead -
pulled over the bed,
or taken by the hand
through old woodlands
and new estates.
I’ve never bitten
anyone, but
often wanted to.
I’ll sit and howl.
Islam hates dogs -
Allah feeds puppies
to his rape gangs.
Can I read out this poem
in my local mosque?
I’m all for interfaith dialogue.
Perhaps we can organise a coach of your loyal monolithers to watch your presentation!