Piss shit and blood,
not alcohol – but piss shit and blood.
Those were the smells of that day.
And the rustle of covers
being pulled over the facts,
before the eyes of the dead.
Her cousins were on the other side.
Strapping Notts lads not unfamiliar with a rumble
who to this day if asked will paw the ground
in the hope that some 21st century
informatic will pop up to explain just how
a day of jumpers for goalposts became
hoardings for stretchers.
But we’d trod this ground before .
In 81 and 83 and 84 when men in yellow
stickered toyshop helmets resting on
comedy sideburns were framed by
numberless ranks, then charged twice,
first by truncheons on horse back
then with horse shit, whilst families used
to looking a problem or three square in the
eye before Evans the milk finished his rounds
kept the solidarity of the world ticking over,
with tears hidden behind Amandla fists.
Hounds let loose to hunt,
and loadsamoney blooding
were the scents of the decade.
And the dehumanising tally-ho
of the scratchers of the estate,
creating new enemies within.
You see. The most successful of snakes
do not lie in wait ready to sink in their fangs
or to simply wrap themselves around us
with the sole aim of stopping our breathe.
They constrict methodically, remorselessly
shutting down our oxygenating blood flow,
all the while monitoring return pressure,
only relaxing their grip when assessing
that our hearts have lost the strength
to pump back.
fuelled in publicly subsidised bars.
Thats the lingering reek of this day.
As the hear, hear cheer snorters
of chumocracy continue to exert
traction on the truth.
A lie can travel half way around the world before the truth laces up its shoes.
Keep your laces close to your heart