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Neill Fawcett

McDonald’s Scene


A man with a free meal

bought by a fucking liberal.


‘I ain’t hurtin’ no one.’


Limp fries crammed in,

whole face a weak




‘I ain’t hurtin’ no one.’


The Law led him out

by a filthy elbow.

Led him and his ragged burger

out to the snow.


‘I ain’t hurtin’ no one’,

he said, to the deaf gleaming glass.

Adult eyes went blind.


Kids saw.


He crunched across the parking lot.

A truck fired up.

Fumes bloomed the air,

cloaking curious eyes.

Ex Pat


The worked man

who seeded six kids to the lying age

shares my table by the sea.


Eyes full of sun and waves

he sees his kids falling free

of their virgin to experience



Sun hangs on his single sleeper

with dead kin and terrorists.


Across the bay a corona

rolls down Koroni's finger

and flailing on orange waves,



kids crushed by rent

and summary executions

of those hell bent

on killing 'Us'.


‘Lee Rigby!’


Multi-nationals play in sand

Their castles cast late shadows on

heroes, Brexit, grandkids


swaddled in the furl of George.


Eyes flicker waves of ire,

husk sun sinks, dousing fire.

Affable dusk abides

rising over distant tides

Cafe lunch


Halloumi with drizzled leaves

and artisan bread.


We drone bomb abroad

blast Pakistani peasants


and are aghast at the nerve

of foreign agents here.


My dog sleeps in oblivious bliss.


How can we be happy?


Look up.


it’s raining.





Fine the Fuckers


What are you doing in this city

on the floor

in a door

in the way

with your dog?


There are better places

to sit on your arse.

Go south,

to the suburbs.

They’ve got cricket pavilions

and fuckin’ millions.



In Greece they blame Albanians

their washing machines squeak

their kids are too loud

they are all thieves


There are Romanian muggers in Wigan

Mexican murderers in Texas

Syrian scroungers everywhere


The poor piss on the poor.


Open the top draw 

where the big boys stash our billions



Mortar and Pestle


Ornament on a high shelf

sacrificial altar toy

for kid caught crickets

on hot Athenian nights.


A poor mother

ground and ground

grew her kin

from alpha to iota.


ground and ground

to sculpt their limbs

that they might swim

strong the straits to Lesvos.


Be strong enough to cling

to ropes of keeling boats

so they may gather island harvests

with un-scarfed heads.


A mother carried

a mother’s mortar

while mothers drowned

in burning Smyrna’s water.

Neil Fawcett was born in Stockport in 1962. His poetry moves freely between the political to the personal. Fawcett spent many years as a teacher and now spends his time writing in a damp shed, looking after his family or wandering aimlessly around Greece. His recent work is influenced by the great Greek Communist poet Yiannis Ritsos, and he's working on a collection that reflects this influence. Fawcett has been widely published in magazines, online and in poetry anthologies. He has also been well placed and won a number of poetry competitions.


Radio 4 prattles on

about British bombers abroad

and their sterling work above

shaking homes in Syria

and their amen bombs

from Saudi to Yemen.

Prattles on about anti-Semite socialists

and the draining of swamps.

What's gone wrong?

Auntie's knickers are in a terrible twist

tangling views

strangling truths.

On Santava Beach


Sand slopes to seaweed

dried like straw on the shoreline.


Small waves lap.


Aphid boats creep between lands

distant slivers of light and dark.


Small waves lap.


Beyond three fingers is open sea

where boats cut arrow tracks from Africa.


Big waves lap.


Storms rush the harbour of Alexandria

and the broken gates of Tripoli.


Washing, washing.


Beyond our third finger,

islands hop to Turkey


where Damascan fruit rots

on minor quays.



Strange boats sit low

cargo salted by sea.


The deaf sea.

The blind sea.

The amoral sea.


Washing, washing.........

…………………………….fruits of war wash ashore


Fruits of war

……………………………wash ashore.


Poor Doors
Sheriff Stars
Black Triangle
bedroom tax
Disrupt and Upset
bedroom tax
Sheriff Stars

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle
Disrupt and Upset

Militant Thistles

prickling the politics of "permanent austerity"

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