Handcuffed. Spit hood.
Here we go again:
skin tone verification again.
Mumbling? Do I speak English?
You try being coherent
after a works night out, 5 pints, a kebab
and an unprovoked punch in the face.
Ask me what I want?
I was thinking of Magaluf this year.
But let’s start with breathing,
tasting the bitterness in the air.
feel its caress inside my nostrils.
Gasp without drowning in my own meaty vomit.
Why do you hold me down?
I have nowhere to run
in a sealed Mariah van, in a locked immigration cell,
in a deportation aeroplane.
Olé, Olé, Olé.
I’m on top of the world.
Too far from the ground.
Too close to the heavens.
Is it me
or is it getting hot in here?
Will I see god or the devil when I wake up?
Who will hear my complaints? I’ve done nothing wrong
except wearing a sombrero
on dress-down Friday, last week.
Wrists and ankles? It’s always wrists and ankles.
Is this a Police fetish club I’ve never heard of?
Lifetime membership free?
Tell HR I might not make it into work tomorrow.
Take it out of my Annual Leave (again)?
One more call?
Tell the lads they’ll have to do Magaluf without me.