Andy Buclaw

Nothing ever changes. The cold black stench of death wanders in from the streets to pick up his latest companion….

We spend one day in a group we belong to
And fall back into circular stability for love or money
Is this a protest?

Sidique Khan reads fairytales to the suicide squad sitting on a cloud
With a bandage taping up his neck wounds, softly spoken for a man of such volume

If you’re a facist it’s a comedy watching liberalism flaws

There are cronies in my head discussing the relevance of being
And there’s a martyr at the table about to blow my brains out

We must discover what is left to re-discover before we are discovered

The coloured ol’ culture of our fair Great Britain.

It’s a wonder why people drive cars into this traffic.

What Bus?

I’m not a national threat, but I’m aware of the stereotype
Life post Nine Eleven, we live in fear for our lives

One
Two
Three
Four….....

I’m an old button in a pocket as the stitching unfastens
Like a charismatic figure in a mental institution

Rabbits don’t go to heaven, so where do they go when they snuff it
Mr Priest, Mr Rabbi, Mr President?

I like your private property
I am an imposter. Changing landscapes.

Your words are a casual fling, a modern design
A metaphor for the greater good, a hope within a dithering society

Your banners and flyers are like a silent film to the I-Pod generation…...

We will not hear your piece, we are the select majority
We occupy this seat in our countries great history
We offer you a chance to be apart of this legacy

We’re deep in the forest.
It’s no time for a picnic, it’s time for something sinister.

Face Paint.
It comes off, It goes on.

I might carry some dark thoughts when I hide in the closet…....