Daily Archives: August 15, 2017

Scum by Jodie Rose McLoughlin

I am not a silent poet

This is what the so called majority asked for
Demonisation of the poor
Our national assets spunked up the wall
Scapegoating Muslim’s and the unproductive disabled
Calling us traitors, takers and scum

They won’t be happy until we’re all oppressed, at the bottom of the barrel drowning in racially pure, neo-Nazi cum

You mock us and shock us with the vitriol you read
Your silence is compliance in a world of black and white
Absolute morality
Cognitive dissonant closed off little minds
Only when they make you suffer too,
will you ever see the light

Where are you when they starve us?
Your ‘friendship’ was lacking when the medical professional assessor hissed,
in my ear and on paper that I’m unworthy of any money to live on
That my disabilities do not exist –

and that by extension neither should I
It’s a natural conclusion
Work or die

The state…

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I am a Nazi by Terrence Sykes

I am not a silent poet

I am a Nazi
I rise with white power
To surpass those
Different from me
I am a true American
I don’t like like Jews for  sure
My sister married a Yankee one
Live in a big house on Long Island
He has some big corporate job
She goes to temple &  raising them like Jews !
That guy I was friends with in high school
Found out he was gay
He helped me pass many a test
I dropped him like a hot potato
Guess he was trying to make a pass on me!
Didn’t have time to got to community college
Or even take time to try out trade school
Too busy obsessing over how oppressed I am
By the world outside that I don’t want to understand
And all the other white males like me
I sure don’t like Muslims either
They are…

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Ahead of the Game by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

We are too slow at escaping, too good at sitting still and enjoying the lives we have made. We need to be ahead of the game, selling up, moving on, making new friends.
We have become bogged down with what we own and worrying about where to go and what to do there. Other places we know all have their charms, and there are worse things than sitting alone in the sun with wine and a book for company.
We should not fear silence or the language of others. We could learn, would get by. We should stop chasing the past, stop expecting success and go and live where we want. Survive there, be there. Make a new home and a new life.
We must stop acting scared and compromising. We can never be rich, financially or culturally, where we are; it would be nice to be…

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Admit One by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

Things we want go sour, what
we aspire to is not attainable.
We get old before our inner youth
expires, dreams disperse as our knees
give out and we have to buy a new car.
The urban metaphor of heaven is no use
to us in the village of confusion,
the city of God seems a long way off
although we’re nearer now than ever;
but it’s hard to read the signs,
harder still to stay on track.
Admit One. I clutch the ticket to a
well-ordained, human paradise,
we think of as a new England,
Albion, or a tidier version of
where we live now. A tsunami
of vision literature arrives in the post:
someone has seen angels and ghosts,
been told what to write. These visitors
do not cure my arthritis or let me sleep,
cannot tell me what I should do.
I am still having to…

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Desert Island Discs by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

The doctor on the radio
spoke about operating
during war and made me cry.
Down-to-earth, matter-of-fact,
way out of my experience,
he’d operated and stitched,
dismembered and mopped up
worldwide, often in the dark.
Machine-gun toting militia
looked on, nurses ran
for cover as lights dimmed
and unseen bombs exploded.
He answered the questions
and introduced his next
piece of music, different
worlds colliding in song.

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Easy Target by Pat Edwards

I am not a silent poet

You are buoyed up by your loathing.

Did it come from your father favouring your brother,

or from your mother’s indifference.

Without this hobby you would be kicking your heels,

listening to music on your headphones.

Now you have found fuel to drive your day,

a flame, an agenda.


Maybe you share your motivation

with the boy who couldn’t get girls,

the boy who couldn’t make himself like girls,

the boy who cut himself because he wanted to be a girl.

Clearly you are troubled.

You liked it better when there was more subterfuge,

an edge, a risk.


Now it is a bit too public, bordering on mainstream.

People can see your face, look you in the eye.

But you practise your stare in the mirror,

tense your muscles so your veins protrude,

fill your chest with hate. You target your extreme opposite,

families with soul, with love,

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Song of the Garden Bridge by Sally Evans

I am not a silent poet

Oh we will have a garden bridge,
a garden bridge, a  garden bridge
oh we will have a garden bridge
to make our city beautiful

Oh you will have no garden bridge,
no garden bridge, no garden bridge,
oh you will have no garden bridge
to make your city beautiful

Oh we will have money and time
to walk among the trees and flowers
oh we will have money and time
to  walk across the water

Oh you will have no money or time
no destination half so fine
for warmth in spring or winter shine
to gaze on flowing water

No blossoms on the cherry tree
no carefree wandering each day,
nor light at night to dream away
there is no city beautiful

All that we had is taken away
our high rise homes are blown away,
no lamps, no electricity,
no railings to contain and hold

No safeguards to protect…

View original post 129 more words