Keep your fat fascist fingers off my pension

The title of this poem is actually something that I heard a teacher shouting into the face of a police officer during the demonstration.

This is the righteous flow.

The very street is up in arms and marching with us.

Every façade of every building is a placard.

Every voice is one voice.

Their words mesh together,

as indiscernible as a star,

but singular in emotional outrage.

 

And policemen line the streets,

and stamp their feet and clip and

unclip the clasps on their baton holsters.

Their nervous fidgeting

turns the air all around

into an itch that you can’t scratch.

 

And still we march on,

heading for Westminster

like a sky-rocket launched at the night,

and we explode into Parliament Square

in a riot of colours and sounds.

 

Our mass fills Westminster Hall

in a heartbeat,  breaks in sparks around it

and flares off into the side streets beyond.

Our song is alive and our feet strong on the street,

 

but with every alley way and

cobbled off-shoot from the main road

our numbers dwindle, 

Until all that is left of us is picket signs

piled against the shops and in the gutters,

 

and a few people heading home for dinner.

Author's Note

This is a poem constructed during and after the strikes and the protest against austerity and pension cuts that happened in England on the 30th of June (Last Thursday), focusing specifically on the demonstration I attended in London.

Reviews

[...]

. perfect title ... a rather poetic narration ... and the last three lines are profound ... i often wonder about the power of a demonstration ... i wonder about what alternative forms of protest there can be too ...

. incidentally, i just saw some visuals of what happened in london ... and i hope things get better there as much as i hope that they get better here ...

[Ruth]

Brilliant! And someone has to voice the disgust at what is happening and I see it happening more and more....superb work love! xx