The Metro, 2.8.17—i.m. Heathcote Williams


There is no hope for egos like Kroenke’s

his actions despicable beyond belief

for trophy-bagging endangered species;

his henchmen stupidly drugged like him

with soulless triumphalism, inane grins

—they need to be hunted to extinction.

And so politics is an Arsenal football

there is no escaping


you thought it was just a game

but this one’s for real


they’ll be waiting for him on the astral

all those animals in a line

disguised as shamans,

united with one voice:


‘This is where Failure begins’.


The big game’s poised—

this time the pitch is sand, and full of lions:

Kroenke is Roman Imperial

slow to learn his lesson, too slow

so slow he’s utterly retro

in his reincarnated pinstripe,

once again just here for the ride

and fatally entitled

to all that money can buy.


The ball rolls out: this time his face

is overprinted on it—the fans

are not buying it, the team’s on strike

the pitch is a bunch of diverse species

playing with Kroenke’s head,

while the bored stadium boos

and we give him the thumbs down.



Jay Ramsay


Shelley’s birthday


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