Riot

Fire is plasma scorching the underside


Of TV screens, safety glass closed between


Voyeurs, working themselves to a climax


Of indignation and no little fear,


And no little guilt, and the performers


Who could be poets such is their total


Self absorption, poets etching malice


On shop windows with subtleties of bricks,


Imprinting their audacious images


Of petrol bombs on dull, regulation


Riot shields. Ultimately, though, looting


Is itself just masturbation, driven


By cravings satisfied in the moment,


Ejaculations of pent up anger,


Of bravado, spilling over pavements,


Over concrete, seed broadcast on stony ground.


Then the lethargy, the recognition


That frustration has only been appeased.


Meanwhile, the moral free market speculates,


There’s profit to be had from destruction.


Ministers compete in denouncing sin,


Intending to bolster their plunging stock,


To deflect attention from kith and kin


Who are culpable of looting pensions,


Imputable for taking all credit


For themselves, complicit in the wanton


Destruction of impoverished nations.


On the odd night cities mostly smouldered,


Financiers mugged whole economies,


Running riot in the City, police


Powerless to act while society


Chose only stand back and watch, hoping


Not to be burned as the great grandchildren


Of the Iron Lady took what they wanted


For themselves alone and in doing so


Drew her to her natural conclusion.

 

                                                       Dave Alton