In as many languages as necessary:
nyet, nein, less chance
I’ll click love on the latest post-
post-avant-garde patio you’ve addended
to the foundationless house of your theory,
than of a bull exiting a slaughterhouse’s iron jaws
with his swaggering rump intact.

I’d rather tear out bits of my own liver
with an argumentative breadknife,
mash it into a pâté and serve it
atop water biscuits to the next meeting
of your posh ladies’ poetry semi-circle
than listen to those who say hourly rosaries
to the Etruscan goddess Mania
to be made tenured Chair of Thin, Fat, or Bald Studies,

when you open a mouthload of exquisite
teeth to speak of the pink-willy privilege
of discontinued West Virginia coalminers,
who have nothing better to do now
than sit on the porch all day,
blackening their hankies
like aristocrats.

This poem is about the abandonment of class by some who still think they are on the left.

Poetry on the Picket Line is a squad of like-minded poets putting themselves about to read their work on picket lines, in the spirit of solidarity. Invitations to rallies etc. welcome, contact facebook.com/pg/PicketLinePoets. The new Poetry on  the Picketline anthology is available at http://www.culturematters.org.uk/index.php/shop-support/our-publications...