universal credit
by Fran Lock
statues wake, and yawning, scrape
the birdshit from their tongues. london
drags a dirty nail across her fibroid lungs.
the hoodies and the halfwits are disporting
on the green. their smiles are shallow gashes
like the slots of fruit machines.
the silent politicians brush their dandruff
from their suits. rehearsing alternate careers
as undertakers’ mutes.
work and pensions perverts, and the l.s.e’s
pet boffins, offer thrilling opportunities
in made to measure coffins.
