The Homeless.
Tenebrous spectres, they exist, out there,
on the crumbling edge of chaos.
A father, a son, a brother,
a daughter, a sister, a mother.
Fragments of some shattered family structure;
waste products
from a society being drive to destruction
by a hurricane of greed
living a life that wears out life,
dying,
the devious death of destruction from existence.
There seems to be an out pouring of anger and and pity at the death of a young homeless man who died in the city centre of Birmingham in what was the coldest night of the year so far. My heart goes out that young man, his friends and family, but why does it take his death for that out pouring of emotion? People living on the streets of the fifth richest country in the world, should be enough to get that anger and emotion boiling over. I have no doubt that Birmingham, like all of UK cities, is awash with wealth, lots of empty properties, yet they all have people living openly on the streets in the cruel British weather. Think, how many homeless people did you see sitting on the pavements the last time you walked trough town? Can you call yourself a civilised country, when people die on the streets from cold and hunger? This case should be more proof, if any more proof was needed, that this system of capitalism that dominates our lives, is incapable of seeing to the needs of all our people. It breeds inequality, poverty and deprivation, yet smothers a band of parasites in unimaginable opulence. It fails miserable to help those in most need, it discards humans it deems as unproductive. It has created a world of insecurity, desperation, and alienation, for what? Nothing more than wealth and power to the few, struggle and anguish for the many. The system is not set in stone, despite the illusion they try to create, that it is the only game in town. It is a man made economic system, that syphons wealth to that cabal of parasites, at the expense of us all. It can and should be destroyed, if we want any form of justice for all.
The Warmth Of A Dream.
He lay in a dark doorway, dreamed of home,
night frost locked his joints
morning rain chilled the marrow of his bone.
In the dream there was a sister,
a pram in a garden, a crowd of youngsters
who called him "mister", a time of little pain.
Are these youngsters the same young men, who
now laugh at him, throw beer cans,
piss on him as he lies drunk in some dark lane?
When was that first step down this slippery slope,
When was that first step to no forgiveness.
No will to rise to beg for food,
numbness kills the pain.
The dream brings a warmth that feels good,
dark fog shades out consciousness,
an ambulance carries of a body washed in rain.
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