Militant Thistles
polemical poetry to prickle the politics of "permanent austerity"
thistles stretch their prickly arms afar
paul summers
the sleeper wakes
it is almost
inaudible
drown out
by the drone
of our shopping
channel juicers
the bleat of our trauma
our narcissist blurt
the quiet slaughter
of the fattened poor
*
welcome
to my kingdom
to the fag-end
of its progress
a slow-mo flash-fire
of bubbling tar
consuming the fibres
of jaundiced filters
this autumn air
our breath incendiary
we live off fear
& borrowed hate
*
& nothing
will grow
in the shadow
of our romance
Paul Summers was born in Northumberland but has been living in tropical central Queensland for the last four and a half years. A founding editor of the magazines Billy Liar and Liar Republic, he has written extensively for TV, film, radio and the theatre. His books include Cunawabi, The Rat’s Mirror, The Last Bus, Vermeer’s Dark Parlour, Big Bella’s Dirty Cafe and Three Men on the Metro (with Andy Croft and Bill Herbert). His most recent poetry collections are union, primitive cartography and straya (all published by Smokestack Books). He lives in North Shields.
*
way off-camera
beyond the reach
of news cycles
& investigative minds
the death toll is rising
the body count grows
bruised hearts
& airless lungs
clogged arteries
& petrified tongues
passion corroded
empathy eroded
asphyxiated dreams
statistics & lies
& god is dead
the faithful fucked
their currency
devalued or defunct
our father. oh father
grant us each day
our daily pills
our snidey tabs
our red-tops
& the strongest drink
our multipack crisps
our poundshop ket
our smack & crack
our coke & skunk
deliver us our bargain hunt
& the great british bake-off
imprison us with labels
cage us in our minds
we live off fear
& borrowed hate
i will smear my cell
with dogma & lard
unleash a plague
of thankless hope
*
it is almost
inaudible
through the drone
of this chatter
the movement of traffic
the transit of hours
the rumble of hunger
the hiss of the rain
the dirge of defeat’s
monotonous refrain
dürer’s horsemen
braying at the door
the quiet slaughter
of the fattened poor