​He trails his sports car
And faded intellect
With brutal élan.
 
He manufactures
No interest
In ‘the other’.
 
Rugby league
Sausage rolls
And plain power wet his appetites.
 
And always that sniggering intake of air
As he launches his next tirade
Against some imagined enemy.
 
‘You’re all losers’ – he sneers
The mantra that seems
To mirror his lost opportunities.
 
The opulence of his beer paunch
Hides no John Falstaff
Just a thug in the citadel
 
 ‘Mate upon mate’
fuelling the nexus
Of his working class fears
 
Boys ascendant
Anti-intellectual in their broken alchemy
Accounting for nothing.
 
 



Gar Jones – September 2015
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