back in the days when only white cider
would wash out the illness
I would sometimes go walking
to escape the view
and always I would meet this same
and always he would tell me his views
'you are mad' he would say
and my fag would bounce with laughter
as if somehow the stigmata
'letting all these muslims in
they are going to take over the place'
and I'd say that he was talking like the bnp
even when casually passing he would tell me
'you're mad' 'you are mad'
until he only needed to wag his finger
- from across a windy westgate
or at the bottom of town
before it was knocked down -
'you are mad'
at last I met him on a bus stop
at the top end of leeds road
and before he got into full flow
I asked him 'why are you telling me
what am I supposed to do'
'well you can start by smashing
that stained glass window
in the industrial museum
- the one that says immigrants
did jobs no one wanted to do
- everyone knows it's bullshit'
'who do you think you are cassandra'
'no he' he said
smoothing his bald head
with the palm of his hand
'nobody believed cassandra'
and then he left
with tailored suit
his dunlop trainers
and wagging finger
The Blue Book