Friday, 24 June 2016

Two poems for the morning after Brexit

The day the elderly f*cked us
was a Thursday
and on the Friday
we awoke to what had happened.
They'd given our inheritance
to a box
already bursting
with its lies and its mistrust and wasted life.
Dear Grandparents,
your alzheimers
won't prevent us
from recalling that dark night
Will the anger leave
when that line still snakes
the waiting remains
and the faceless distant aren't there to blame.
Where now will their anger go?
Where will their jabbing finger point?

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