No Stuffing But Leathered

 

     Back then when politics waged war

upon our workers,

   many a grid - darkened as many pits closed,

      many too - the costliest of lathes befell to silent running -

         and none were given to a save

 

     The table hadn’t the food a family could boast

as pressure had the eye of courts upon communities

where common place, was once a pride and then contentment -

   a man had right to work and a woman;-

      the makings of the home – ‘today’ hasn’t any knowledge of.

 

     As the scythe swept across the North of England -

the murderer used the finest to man the lines that death

had no right to visit but still……..

 

2.

 

     At the local restaurant,

the romance has them both in moods of

silent quarrel like chess combatants

     waiting eagerly the battle,

   lights are lowered as candles cast

the shadows upon the walls to mimic Plato

     as cave like allegories frighten all,

dead canaries raising alarms to seek the light,

   seemingly monstrous as power stations

      walk in sympathy to a death bell knoll and brook of wrist like blood.

 

     Undaunted by their tearful deluge -

        estates upon the poorest of England

           have the nose of children bloodied

              where mitts have not the stuffing only leather,

                  no more than bare knuckle fights for kids

                      in skid row towns that now boast generators of cash,

                          none, are yet of puberty.

 

     ‘we all know what it means when they come to town

as the utilities leave - but still undaunted the fists fly’

 

3.

 

     In the restaurant the second course is under way

as our combatants seethe across the flower petals -

   the umpire considering a barrier underneath to stop

      the kicking contest never seen,

         the memes are lived again and then again

            none questioning a bill of rights to move the chairs upon the very same of corner.

 

     By candle light across each town,

a romance wages war upon the crowns of Christian Clowns -

   the umpire sweating so profusely now – engaging

      every stealth – a sordid director crowds -

         in vengeful effort of knockout count and then……………

 

                                          ……………..the fight is called to cease!

 

               the boy of olive skin and darkened hair and

                   boy of fairest skin and strawberry flair,

                       bloodied both yet not of teen in knuckle fight -

                           to fight again in mares of dreams have the deluge

                               sponsor winning streaks to run the blood of love,

 

     “why are you two crying?” the umpire asks while catching breath by candle light

              in boxing towns of council CHAVS and in-between the sobs of Doves -

                         as witness turns their back,- a reply in unity and only then;-

                                    “we’re brothers!”

 

          ‘the umpire drops his gaze and closes eyes, removes the stripe of shirt -

               the uniform of cons,

                         wondering ‘no stuffing here but leathered,’

                                      should there be another course for greeds of ruling ignorance?’

 

Michael J Waite 20th of April 2023.

(I love you Simon, I may bot you, I may bat you, but you still my bruvva).