I cannot kiss this better; retrieve a token bliss
from broken teeth, on Friday night or otherwise.
I know that now. They make incessant fetish
from the vegetative English dead; you don’t
belong. Fuck off! they said. I cannot kiss this
better; the old accused and clouded heart.
You’re fit enough. They sent a letter, spread
a sad, mutating shame; your hijacked mind
was reeling and your pockets full of stones.
I cannot make this better. The children stew
in uniforms, and take instruction in a sneer.
The ethic of their ignorance, a stifled pride
they daub on walls or break a window with.
There’s nothing better left round here.
I cannot make this better. The paper sprouts
opinions, promiscuous as weeds. We are
the undeserving poor, so televise our erring
faces, slurring in a sound bite. A viral slight
they slip between the ribs; a smile that serves
to show the teeth, distorts the jaw. I cannot
kiss this better, the rifle butt to your mother’s
chin; the door the bawling troops kicked in,
the hank of hair they tore out at the roots;
a conscience polished for parades, the armour
of their accolades, our blood and muck still
clinging to their boots. And all throughout
the politicians smirk, upholstered in their
pedigree. And people, drunk on lapis sap,
applaud the spoilt heredity of Windsors;
their balconies are panting with long tongues
of ugly bunting. I cannot kiss this better.
Nobody can fight alone nostalgia’s analgesic
trap. But we can work together. We are still
here, we can, we must, rebuild again in faith
and trust. This land is ours, we want it back.