Lots of salt

With bits of love. (No nuts)

Free Pelargonium with pots and gloves

Where is Pelargonia anyway?

They never have a war there.

He gets the hots for doves

She gets the shots for glue and yellow fever.

Shall we believe her?

With yachts of the above.

With affectless faces.

Effortless groceries

Affectionate grimaces.

Lord, adversary.

Lord.he curses.

Lord. Oh,Lord it’s Percy.

What is the point of poetry?

https://www.spiked-online.com/2018/01/16/what-is-the-point-of-poetry/

EXTRACT

“A thought is no sooner formed than it’s being shared, ricocheting off the walls of a fibre-optic cable at the speed of light, into millions of other passively receptive minds.

Poetry is the complete opposite of this rash, careless cacophony. It’s where words, with all their immanent power, beauty and capacity to move us as human beings, find the most fertile soil. In poetry we road-test words to destruction; squeeze impossibilities out of them and combine them to form beautiful structures unimaginable in any other context.”

The working class identity crisis

yellow heavy equipment
Photo by DapurMelodi on Pexels.com

ash background beautiful blaze
Photo by icon0.com on Pexels.com

coal coffee cooking daylight
Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Pexels.com

Why we can’t ignore the working-class identity crisis

 

¨It is no exaggeration to say that the working class in Britain is in the throes of an identity crisis. It is particularly noticeable in those towns which a few decades ago were thriving centres of industry – former colliery towns, for example, in the Midlands and South Wales. Places that are far from Westminster; places which voted overwhelmingly for Brexit.

Identities here were once strong, tied to work and community. But in recent decades this proud demeanour has been replaced by something closer to humiliation. That’s why the ‘take back control’ rhetoric of the Brexit referendum resounded so powerfully in these parts of the country: the idea of ‘globalisation’ is here synonymous with the destruction of old industry and its replacement with insecure work in warehouses and call centres, much of not even done by the locals.

In Rugeley, as in many other working-class towns, identity – particularly male identity – was at one time  something that was forged by work, something that was shared¨