Manchester Arena

Yes you’re angry, we all are. However, if you attack Muslims and other minorities in the name of last night’s Manchester bomb attack, it’s not because you’re angry, it’s because you are racist, and last night has just given you a convenient excuse.

People of every race, colour and religion will have been shocked and outraged by this barbaric act. Holding Muslims and other minorities responsible for sick people is a bit like holding me responsible for the sad, pathetic, sick people who even still idolise and hero-worship Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.

after the fire

the slaying of our societal rose
futility’s dream in its darkest clothes
suffering on a societal scale
the breath of evil as demons exhale
spitting death as worthless bile
in name of a God they singly defile
craving the immortal jamboree
but how immortal can a murderer be
We still believe in society’s flower
reach for all tolerance within our power
still we aim for the jewelled skies
immutable hope our unbreakable prize

Manchester, my city

Manchester
my city-like-no-other
she’s like a friend to me
she waits with me
laughs with me
love her or not
she may outrun you
even before
she’s done with you
some will fall
dancing their end

my city has those people
who live in their shoes
arriving at her breast
nothing left to lose
people in transit
to a better life
and as if they’ve planned it
they learn to live with her
they learn to adore her
come what may

my city lives her own life
her nights never still
days obeying the laws of
the treadmill
rhythm and pace
and even as we run
she ignores our race
Manchester
in the sun
or ignoring the rain
her face is the same
with me she is one
for richer or poorer
through days I’m her brother
in the night she’s my lover
my city-like-no-other

Domestic Abuse

Woman from girl
Carries her plan for life,
This girl
Planned love,
Become a wife.
Whatever dream she had
Of married bliss,
Wonder,
An abusive man
Tore asunder.
She loves still
The dream of union,
Though soon fun
Became despoiled kiss.
Could she run?
Well, the midst of the day
Offered chances anew
To run away.
But love is her life
While her secret is fear,
Her privy desire
To keep him near,
Knows no sense,
Knows not just fear
But courage too.
She knows love, but
Has no will to prepense
The end of marriage.
She loves the man
Not the damage he’s done
To her plan for life
And what she’s become,
A battered wife.

Consensual Plutocracy

Vote Labour

Steve Pearson Poetry

It means so little to Moneyville denizens
Tapping their toes to their tunes
Treating society like their colouring book
Laughing at the poverty cartoons

They know, dignity decays to poverty squared
It’s their protection in the round
Dependence begotten within the sinking holes
While they hold their higher ground

So they build their shrines to a servile society
Upon the toil of the obeisant poor
Yet on, and on, the social fodder subscribes
To their master and slave metaphor

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Consensual Plutocracy

It means so little to Moneyville denizens
Tapping their toes to their tunes
Treating society like their colouring book
Laughing at the poverty cartoons

They know, dignity decays to poverty squared
It’s their protection in the round
Dependence begotten within the sinking holes
While they hold their higher ground

So they build their shrines to a servile society
Upon the toil of the obeisant poor
Yet on, and on, the social fodder subscribes
To their master and slave metaphor

Election 2017

Are we all so naive
As to meekly succumb
To the colourless new-ribbon wrapped lies?
Are we really so stupid
That we are taken in
By the Tories benevolent election disguise?
Feigning the sunshine
When they just want rain
They’ll strip us down to an outstretched palm.
While we’ve still got juice
They’ll squeeze us again
Without so much as a bastard-born qualm.
We know what to do
We know what we need
We need to put the beast back in to its cage.
Vote to reject May
Vote for an equitable UK
End her vile chapter, and start a new page.