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.
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.
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
thistles stretch their prickly arms afar
thistles stretch their prickly arms afar
Militant Thistles