Uniform

I’m from a time
When green land was punctured
By grey men, fertile
Features homogenous
Blades of sweet screaming
Little land of golden bricks
Shook under the weight
Of demolition dating.
Concrete jungles swung
Through tired old tin roof shacks
Replaced by luxury
Fa├žades, sat high above
The natural eye line
They flaunted their wealth
From the top floor
Cash would have landed
Like bombs, if any had
Trickled down.
We could customise ourselves
In ways future thinkers
Could never have foreseen
But we accepted our uniform
The grey replaced the green

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Uniform

Amateur

It’s hard to tell once on
The train to Birmingham
Whether it changed anything
Seeing a multiracial society
Kids running across bustling streets
The sights and smells differ
From quiet, sterilised streets
Amateur gardeners knead out
The weeds around a small plot
Of land. I’m bored just watching
The intricate backbreaking toil
I could remove the signs from
School gates, take what disruption
I can get my hands upon
Lice crawling on bare skin
Escape, not yet an option

Amateur

Comb

A man in a shell suit
Bags heavier than usual
Green bin lid doesn’t shut
An arm stretches out
To squash down the mass
Compact compost in neat
Squares of satisfaction
Chewy combs; dessert
Or breakfast snacks
Occupy your thoughts
Processing power not
Required to choose
A diet, pump in the fat
By the camera load
Watch it ooze across
The high street, but
Nobody watches it
Stick to the concrete

Comb