Bullshit

I live on a big council estate and some of the youths are having trouble with their social distancing.

This is dedicated to them.

WARNING: SWEARING (for they most definitely don’t speak like the Queen ha!)

Gangs of youths
Balaclavad faces
Trainers choked with mud
From a prohibited space
No one’s gonna force us
To pissing well embrace
This social distancing
Propaganda rat race
It’s all fucking
Bullshit

Wayward teens
Parents don’t give a shit
If we’re lacing up
Another coronavirus hit
Delinquents, wear the face
If it damn well fits
Only give a damn
If your hair is on fleek
It’s all fucking
Bullshit

Loitering around
Pissed and stoned
Fucking around
Making Tik Toks on our phones
Breathing the death air
Spreading toxic with our bones
Ringing out the death knolls
With our knocked off iPhones
It’s all fucking
Bullshit

Best friend’s gone now
Intensive care
Didn’t give a shit
Pissed his chances in the air
Fucking his fate
Over a told you so chair
Just another news story
For the BBC to share
It’s all fucking
Bullshit

©2020 Sarah Drury

The Lobby

We’ve had a bit of a problem in our block of flats. People keep getting in the communal entrance (which is supposed to be locked) and smoking drugs. The other night (at midnight) it was so bad the thick smoke set the fire alarm off! It inspired this poem…

Another night on my ramshackle estate
As the moon laments this shitty, bitty, gritty town
Its silver veil a smokescreen for the shady underworld
The illicit drugs, the criminals doing their small town dealing
affirming the government statistics
that the wounds that aren’t healing, the budget stealing
in this festering underworld, doing good isn’t appealing.
They said it was safe and secure, my second floor flat
But I beg to differ
With the random riff raff gathered in the foyer below
Smoking, choking themselves into silver plumes of dead aspirations
Coiling around the redundant dreams
Of unrealistic YouTube celebrity expectations
Picking up chicks and pseudo sexual conversations
A sad perpetuation of the failures and fuck ups of generations
Each puff inhaled, the deadening of a painful sensation.

They don’t make much noise, these kids
Maybe their empty voices have little of value to say
Or maybe they’ve learnt that their vacant words are as meaningless as a drug free day
That their song is suicidal, that their record is one that will never play
That the language they speak doesn’t have any colours, just black, white and grey.
And what happened to you, long lost kiddo?
What tattered, shit hand did life deal you so young?
With your fucks and your shits and wankers and twats
And your profanities dripping off your streetwise tongue
An opera in the gangsta hood gone unsung
An invasive cancer on a no hope, blackened, smoke-stained lung.

Playing games with the tragic three little pigs
And the big bad bullshit wolf
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow
And they forgot the house as the blow made their minds slow
As the smoke curls elegantly upwards and flows
And their feelings of detachment grow
And the seeds of futlity and hostility and disability they sow
And where will it all lead, where will it all go?

Another night on my ramshackle estate
With the spliff head kids, always high, always low.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Twagger

*If you don’t know what a ‘twagger’ is, it means a truant.

Giz a fag, Sarah, giz a fag
A single prize possession from the time when you
Could go into a corner shop
And ask for just one solitary piece of heaven.
10p please, 10p,
For we don’t care if you are a Jackie reading twelve year old
And you have lovely, sweet, bubblegum pink lungs
And we are an exploitive catalyst
In your future nicotine addiction.

We strike the solitary Swan brand match,
Huddled in a gaggle of expectant, excited girly girls
Feeling hard for a few minutes, feeling tough as shit
And saying fuck you to the rotten institution
Saying fuck you to our proletariat parents, our dog-tired teachers
Defiance as we inhale our teen rebellion
And exhale the gradual death of childish innocence.

It feels bloody good
To escape the concrete prison walls
To dice with the flaky establishment
To fuck with the rules, to stick two proverbial fingers
Up at the big, red brick, heart sick wall
To embrace the philosophy of Pink Floyd
To break the mould, to smash the expectation
To be a precise square peg in a chaotic round hole.

Giz a fag, Sarah, giz a fag
Giz a fag.

© Sarah Drury 2019