The Latest Chattering Class Agenda by Peadar O’Donoghue

I am not a silent poet

There, oh there,
dying a thousand mad deaths
decades after, centuries after,
they are all after,
John Clare.
Field hand,
workman,
mad man.

SonofaNietzsche,
the jargon’s wobble hints
lack an atomic bomb
the certain lack of largesse n’oblige.

We, sisters, brothers,
mothers, fathers,
sweat-greased caps doffed,
of all shades,
black lungs
like forelocks tugged,
the mores they change
the mores they stay the same,
the middle classes fighting
for themselves,
the working classes,
defeated, conned,
subjugated, the best of us
fighting amongst ourselves.

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