Middle Class Revolutionary

There is a type of person who seems to thrive on taking their personal anger and avoiding dealing with it by protesting all the time for any number of worthy causes. Often they are privileged and all too often it seems they are playing out some sort of drama they’ve concocted in their heads.

You may surmise from this poem, this is not something I have a lot of time for.

Middle Class Revolutionary

Jo was skint,

A funny looking sort of bint,

Elegant in her ragamuffin

Cast off Oxfam clothes, gold in

Her nose from a family trip

To Goa, just to show her mother

What sort of girl she had brought

Into the world, an unsung heroine

Of the counter revolution,

Reverse evolution, a nice

Middle class lass who thought the grass

Was greener where it wasn’t cleaner.

On the side of the picket

Line, blockading banks and corporations

She felt fine, took lovers

Of all nations to prove she was

No square, how dare you assert that?

You reactionary twat, but

You might try to make her see

Precautions would have prevented that

STD she now bestows on

All her graces favour, this bedraggled

And dread locked saviour of

Farmers in Peru, Workers in

Abkhazia, Miners in Kathmandu,

Woman who hate Grazia.

She supports them one and all,

Joins any call to defy the

Man, half healthy in her unwashed

Tan,  kicking coppers as they

Drag her away, she’s had to

Stay overnight but never residential,

Just enough to give

Her the right credentials amongst

Her sisters and brothers, she reigns,

Supreme,  queen on her own little

Scene, But sometimes, at night as

She comes home to the squat

Sees what she’s got,

The drugged up

Lover on her bed, neon shining

Red through the window, she whispers,

Where’d the time go? The glass looks

Half empty to sweet Jo, but what

Can she do, It’s all she knows, and

The door leading back is firmly closed

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