Prose Poem & Death March for Theresa May




I on to the water shall walk and
look back never. And in those days
the thing it was not or was was to leave behind one’s maidenhead
or where to forget it was. Always one has to
remind others of where made one’s head and coiffure was.
Papa, that book you’re reading, what’s it?
And ye olde Papa said THE book it is.
But who you are no idea I have.
The ID card you don’t and won’t have and care I don’t.
Then she said to come here if you want
make sure enough money to yourself back up you have,
so in their pockets checked they and enough it wasn’t
and the children leaving behind it meant
so they did and wasn’t it sad that was (rhetorical question).
Anyway, near my child want you I don’t.
Guilty you are until innocent you are proven
and know I what condoning I am
when records you keep of internet usage,
voice calls, messages and email
and of juveniles the namelessness lift
who of deeds criminal are guilty found.
And yes, you something told me, I know, and notice I didn’t take.
And yes, on a few things my position I’ve changed.
Can’t she, a girl, her mind change? But keep I
my head down; for the future an insurance it’s like.


Our failure to understand that life is a bugger
perhaps brought us to this pass, but perhaps also this has nothing
to do with believing in anything beyond
one’s own prejudices. That’s a band playing
and people celebrating one another’s variety performance.
You know what this is not really about. It’s about people like you.
But people you don’t like don’t like you. People like us, anyway.
We shall march into the desert,
a desert we created,
and it’s very likely we shall become sand.


© Martin Stannard, 2016
Photo Nick Victor


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