His language used to be industrial.
Then it were desperate,
Now it’s academic.

His heart,
Closed and blackened,
Like the slag-heaped upon
Bits of pits which
Dig bits of
Physical ticks that twitch
And conflagrate
And agitate
The propped nature of
His strong fragility,
His hard sinewed inability
To comprehend,
What they call
The end.

Wheeled monuments
Astride the landscape,
Like rugby league
Heads down grafting,
Huge shoulders strain,
To scrum the earth,
Extract the ball,
Pass it on
From theirs before,
Who’ve passed it on
From theirs before,
Who’ll pass it on
To theirs no more.

Stick a miner’s hat on
The policeman’s baton,
The excessive force
From the perspective
Of a skewed directive.
Game no more.
Faith no more.
Work no more.

Red cabbage blood spots
On the grey scale pitch.
Tip buckets filled
For battered pride ’n’ chips.
Legs set, backs bent,
Arms out for the onslaught.
Give blood,
Play rugby,
Play war.

The crowd that
Engaged and
Doffed caps to
Hand-offs and
Are now enraged,
And off caps for
Hand outs,
For lives back.

This is Northern
Back-breaking music.
This ain’t no
Wilson Picket song.
This tune’s 33 year-old
Played at 33 revolutions P.M.
By The Godfather of Dole.

Wake up Maggie,
I think I’ve got something to
Say to you…


Mark Coverdale reads The Godfather of Dole