TOLCHOK 79
got clockworked by a plod
me and my droogs we did
just for
kicking a ball around
next to an old bomb site
around the corner
from
Maine Road
behind which, in the distance,
the brutalist concrete Sauron towers
of Moss Side
speak gloomily, epitomize every
class-driven mistake in social planning
(and now
we know for a contested fact
how easy these
vulgar monoliths have
the capacity
to burn)
and all of us
United fans
the five of us
living in
a tiny
terraced house
under the shadow
of the floodlights
just a stone’s throw
so we were
playing
celebrating
(me getting my Masters
droogs passing
their exams)
but then he arrived, breath of
freezing air,
stripped that street of all its
June sun warmth
instantly
shunting us once, twice, off
the street,
threatening with (absurd as it sounds)
jamming the four of us into
his tiny British Leyland plod vehicle
taking us down
to the cop shop, Star
Chamber, Guantanamo, Devil’s
Island
to a place beyond the stars, or down
in the basement cold storage locker
of the Overlook Hotel
face
pudgy, near featureless,
harbinger of whatever V of Vendetta
police state future
Thatcher revolution
waiting in the wings (waiting for
the killer pass
out on
the outside right
position)
back to the
future, no hope
of world cup revisiting
so
fat blue referee in
car far too
small for him
bundling himself out
shoving himself
up in our
faces
one fat dude with
thge power of State over
life and death
and yet
could see from his face
one step too far
knew
all on his own
this side of nowhere
tactically clueless
no cavalry
to call in
rush, a la, Big Horn,
a la Peterloo, Starmer Met-style
to his rescue
having
pushed his luck
exceeded his mandate,
torn the heart out of our moment,
killed our day
no more
intricate dribbling,
magical ball wizardry
for us to
attempt
imagine we
had mastery
just the trudge back home
chance for the
justice
of a people’s tolchok
gone
out of touch
fallen by the wayside
risked the red card
crazy courage
found wanting
guess like it is
for
everybody here
then
and now
closer by the day
the Britain I was born into
to fate of dystopian state
determined, as of old,
to close down everything, close
down spaces,
no space
to play, no
place to be free
got to
take to insane conclusion
the logic of enclosure
no space to write, no
space to be
and me
picked out from the gang of us
on account of my twangy
hybrid Mancunian
Souf Effrikan accent
marked for
interrogation, on
the spot cross question
explaining to him
who I am
what I am doing here
dissertation on satire, learning
my trade at the heart
of his fiefdom
bit by
bit
becoming
street smart about
finding a
special acumen,
learning the lethality
of every potential linguistic weapon
getting the
distinct hang of
how to dismantle everything
got
clockworked by the plod
once upon a time
me and my droogs
we did
poems 2 die for 