Do you hear that sound?
Jackboot heel click on cold concrete?
And neither will you.
Men clad in black Hugo Boss trench coats
will not police the abyss
we are staring into.
It will be bobbies who beam as they swing and taze.
There will be no bold icons,
in contrasting block colours.
and there will be no Wagnerian orchestral backing.
Only willow on leather and fine china’s tinkleclink.
A picture postcard, invented past
watched through rose tinted spectacles
in red and white frames.
A projection of something which was never, ever there.,
Windsor tea towel collections
and tweed garottes,
which pink cheeked boy scouts will learn to knot with perfection
before parading and taking saccharin oaths.
Kipling and hymns stolen
from slaves and revolutionaries alike.
Moulded into superficial gestures
towards our supposed proud liberal values.
Endless punishment by capital
and capital punishment’s return
by an obscene show of hands
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