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    Artwork by Blue-John Benjamin

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lyrics

A Firestorm in Downing Street

A newsreader’s charred backdrop—
the still-glowing poverty trap.

A straw PM flaps in a gale;
let the crows make of her what they will.

If she goes to ground, set the hounds loose;
dig her out like a fox.

Feeling the pinch, we sing, with all our hearts,
Flaming June’s twenty-first century blues.

A firestorm in Downing Street—
blazing souls of children
in the form of swallows.
There will be a march;
a day of reckoning;
the burning gaze of angels.

The scarecrow propped itself up,
but the blue touchpaper was lit.

Hyenas take their summer selfies,
the backdrop a grim, black skeleton.

Let the privileged few cue for tins;
make them rummage in supermarket bins.

They tried to keep a lid on the toll,
failing to sweep Flaming June away.

Run if you must, driven from your burrows;
there is nowhere to hide.
Those who died want to know why.
Divinely incandescent swallows
will cram your mouths with soot,
and pin the sleeves of your designer-wear,
bloated by straw, to limbs
from a tree stripped bare
(its magical leaves, once torn,
were nothing more than dust).
The perpetrators are to be stationed
on hillsides of golden loneliness,
in smoulderings of wheat.

A firestorm in Downing Street—
blazing souls of children
in the form of swallows.
There will be a march;
a day of reckoning;
the burning gaze of angels.

credits

from The Burning EP (Derelict Roller Disco Records, 2018), released June 1, 2018

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Blue-John Benjamin Whitby, UK

"We put the boot in - flew the freak-flag;
We stood resolute like Morrissey’s quiff."

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