No Warm Arms

When the gang vermin, thrashing hard,

had left me fit for the scrap-yard

and the guard outside Ward Three

rebuked my swearword-peppered thrum

of “Let’s just shoot the thick chav scum”,

no warm arms comforted me.

 

Empty-futured and stood in line,

no choice but stack a shelf or sign,

no benign help from the tree

of justice that states nothing harms

my kind, we’re all Sirs and Madames,

no warm arms comforted me.

 

At fifty-nine my father croaked.

He’d boozed, industrially smoked

and provoked not one degree

of my thanks, and as he transformed,

entombed, into a flaming swarm,

no warm arms comforted me.

 

Each year and then each year again

all my love gurgles down a drain,

disdained and serving no needs.

But I won’t hold just any hand.

I’ll be the horse to no-one’s brand.

And in my land – hatred breeds.

 

 

 

 


 

From “Disoccidented” by Alfie Shoyger:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Disoccidented-Alfie-Shoyger/dp/1999922859

 

critique and comments welcome.

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