#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook #bradford cassandra


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
   asian man
   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
      was physical

   '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
      that walk
      and wagging finger

The Blue Book

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