In a shattered bus shelter the vandalised
victim of a pointless ‘chav’* assault.
I stood and watched as life fell, belched
from a sullen sky, observing its unabated
impact amid the crystal mountains around my feet
failing miserably to cleanse the detritus on a lifeless street.
for an ‘X78’ that’s overdue, late, wondering
if it’ll ever come, like the childhood dreams,
forty-odd-years past, and still out of reach.
There’s a hose-pipe ban in the South-East,
and snow tomorrow, ha!
Pathos flew on the wings of a Magpie
scolding the sky with it’s searing rhetoric,
unimpressed with its sodden gown, Nature’s irony, our folly.
‘Watch you don’t get that flu,
maybe that’s what killed Milosovic?
May as well have...where’s the justice?
Wayne Rooney! Five million
for his biography, a twenty-year-old,
insidious, illiterate, football playing ‘chav’.
The truly creative overlooked in favour
of the cult of celebrity, we’ve been bloody had!
where’s the justice?’
Then pathos flew away as
the rain relaxed its relentless assault
turning to a fine drizzle, ‘the kind
that makes you wet,’ or so they say,
already soaked to the bone
the wisdom of fishwives has little credence.
‘Where’s that bloody bus’?
*Chav; (sl) noun, 1. Complete and utter twat.
2. Often seen hanging around off-licences in packs of at least 10 like minded spotty hooded-Herbert’s. 3. Wears lots of cheap and nasty ‘ bling’, usually sovereign rings and gold bog chains, also Burberry caps and nylon sports clothes.