Two poems

 

Two new-ish poems. Blow Up was completed and shared on my socials on 28 November. The same day I started Another Collapse, which I finished this morning, 40 days on. There is a plan for two further poems in what is intended to be a sequence which will broaden the scope of what I'm addressing and make the connections clearer. 

Blow Up

This fucking county. This fucking city. Intero-

ception. Stress comes sudden. Parakeets hark

and squall with commuters from roosts to trees on the median.

Yellow leaves stroboscopic clicks against
half-light. Mirtazapine visual disturbance. I can smell
the brittle self-archaeology of the quarter-century’s
towers. Too dumb to be ugly too financialised to be beautiful.
This miserable glour and quisling to its history Sing-
apore-on-Mersey. “Study the fast-paced
world of finance, where markets move, money
matters, and big decisions shape the global
economy. Gain in-demand skills that open doors
to unbelievable career prospects in banking,
investment, financial management and more.” These fucking 
cunts and their fucking cars. Not even commit-
ted to the bit. Inside oligarchic capitalism still
half-trusting neoliberalism as the fundamental
interaction. Irreducible, constant.
Disjoint emotion/body. Perception of interior
sensations/needs. My dreams are hilarious. Outside
I saw them jump from the bridge. Impulse overwhelm
reflection, break heavily. The half-listened
podcast in earbuds – the word ‘bash’ bubbles
up coincident with graffiti reading BASH.
It might be BASK, the last letter ambiguous
enough for the first read. Emotional dys-
regulation. Embodied. Cry and scream
in rain and wind. Numbed dexterity. Frustration.
Everything lands at once. Waiting for the next
market crash the next bubble bursting.

Another Collapse

This fucking weather. "Manchester's new

innovation district... Home to the UK's

most exciting ideas and dis-

ruptive technologies." Tents pursued

from town hall, university,

shopping street. Earmarked for dev-

elopment. Places that feel indefinably

unsafe. A new framework.  Rentier

economy, platform capital's emotional

arbitrage and no one seems happy. Bask

in a low squint of sun until

you pass a wall and shadowed you're sharply

aware of your bitten circulation.

Under bridges, in alleys, on tow-

paths unhoused people tear

strips of skin from their legs, salt

and smoke them to eat later. C-

CTV watches

for fly tippers, waiting for emails

and WhatsApp messages from neighbourhood

Facebook groups. Photos attached.

Clouds break and the sky's clear;

my feet are soaked. It's a long walk

from here back to childhood. Auto-

sarcophagy.  "...you'll find visionary start-ups

next to industry leading multi-

nationals. University spin-outs

next to social enterprises.

Creative studios next to R-

&D facilities. New homes

next to calming green spaces

and bustling community hubs."

But the ground is tired. Grass won't grow.

An economy of poverty.