Militant Thistles

polemical poetry to prickle the politics of "permanent austerity"

atos Poor Doors Sheriff Stars spikes

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle bedroom tax Disrupt and Upset

David R. Mellor

So many are falling from the skies, of comfortable lives


So many are falling from the skies, of comfortable lives

Until between the clouds, we can see me and you

Drinking in the bar one minute

Then outside Tesco

Mouths ajar


So many are breaking up inside

Falling from the skies,

Of comfortable lives


Passing the credit cards

Trying to grasp Universal Credit

Fingertips touching their children

On the way down

Landing with crash

At their door

Now repossessed

With someone else inside


So many are slipping through the cracks

Of this freezing land

Perishing in doorways

No hope insight  

Except your hand




Kensington and Chelsea


Sleep well tonight

With your burning

Log fire


Scurrying and searching

For that vintage caviar


A steaming shower

Cooled with luxury cosmetics

Burning your Botox lips


Sleep well tonight

Holding on to those

Curled up in fresh satin sheets


But what troubles you?

You don’t want the poor

Living in a block of flats next door

Well, now you don’t have to worry about that anymore

David R. Mellor was born in 1964, (Liverpool, England) difficult birth, didn't find his voice until my youth. Years of thinking he was nobody and treated as such. However, hit the paper papering over the scars. Found understanding and belief through words. He has been published and performed widely from the BBC, The Tate, galleries and pubs and everything in between. His poems are autobiographical, others topical and several his take on life.

Street Scene



That’s a tanning studio

That’s a chippy

That’s a tanning studio


That’s a hairdressers


Empty shop

Empty shop

Empty shop


That’s a smoke free Wetherspoons


That’s a closed pub

That’s a closed pub

That’s a closed pub


That’s a couple strapped

for cash


That’s a family next door

whose giro

couldn’t last


That’s a fake tan

That’s a discarded chip paper

That’s another fake tan


That’s just a street

come to the end

Hillsborough 96



Pissed on

Shit upon

Stolen our pride

Fiddling the statements

Of those that you let die


Gone past the cut off point of caring

Who was left in the pile?


Leaving the ambulances revving

No need to push through

They’re only football supporters not like me and you


Conceited and arrogant blaming the dead for dying

Hats off to those who never gave up trying.