Ghosts

Ghosts.


We are still here, unseen and unheard,
Insects trapped in amber, ghosts,
Drowning slowly in the sap of silence,
Struggling vainly to free ourselves,
When our wings are wet with your resin.

Shameful now, to be locked away,
In concrete boxes and wooden coffins,
Whilst the crucifix of a rainbow,
Rises from the corpse of our culture,
And celebrates our every abortion.

The truth is no defence, for lies are gods,
To which we must sacrifice the truth,
Tearing us out of time like the pages,
Of history books filled with a ‘hate‘,
That my grandfather once called his pride.


Estranged from your welcoming embrace,
Which receives the world where we live,
Yet never plants its seeds in your streets,
So that its scions may seek to colonise,
The golden acres of your enclaves of wealth.


For we are too white, too poor, too angry,
British and bland, not spicy enough,
To satisfy the jaded palate of the privileged,
That perch upon England’s broken back,
And pontificate to the poor in their prisons.


With your raven smiles in black silk suits,
You preen in the frenzy of subtle treasons,
In the camera flash and flicker of fame,
In fashionable circles that worship each lie,
In the poetry of strangers, erasing our past.