A Raging Migraine by Rose Drew

I feel rage coming on like a migraine,
thumping, thump thump thump,
steady,
the beat of 25 quid not all can spend
just to vote.

This what Murica does right?
The free vote,
the easy signup to a party,
the precious bit of paper
(denied to felons, and the mislabelled dead who still live)
(try sorting that one out)
the invite to the polling station
(that is moved or breaks down)

your name on a list, listed by street,
just check you off,

unless you need gummint ID (new laws)
and unless this ID cannot be gotten
without buses taken to far off offices
not on bus routes,
not often open,
requiring birth certificates you can’t find
for an at-home birth in a sharecropper’s hut
in 1925.
(try sorting that out)

Age 90, can’t see
and the courthouse burned down and anyway
you was housekeeper for the judge
don’t they care anymore
(no).

So maybe not so different
and the Tories pay too, we’re told
but this is a poll tax slapped up fast
cos most in power
don’t like Corbyn.

I feel a dull and spreading ache
the sort that closes high streets and leaves
empty windows a shiny black
until someone cracks them
and inside, discarded shelves
and always tons of paper
everywhere, piled up,
even in abandoned delis and nail salons and sandwich shops,
always paper, and boxes.

Real stores left ages ago,
high street rents fit for London not covered in Thirsk
and work is pubs and Argos,
maybe the Council or maybe not,
or the dying hospital.

And the thump thump trump rage
was stamped onto the
ONE FREE BALLOT
we’ve had of late,
with hate
and promises on buses saying
a billion a month for NHS
and no more languages you don’t speak in the empty market.

And those were lies.
The NHS starved by banksters,
and a country filled by idle hands
that could build the houses and the schools
and shops
and work them;
but all that takes faith and leaders.

We can point our fingers every which way
but til money covers babies, and the old;
and those who need a job have it,
and those who can’t handle one aren’t shamed and starved;
til a roof is over heads
whether house or hospice;
til bad health is bad luck, and rare,
blame won’t fix what’s broken

and the trump trump trump,
the migraine, god the pain:
it just won’t go away.

2 thoughts on “A Raging Migraine by Rose Drew

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