Where The Houses Used To Be

Where The Houses Used To Be – Colin Hankey


Where the Houses Used to Be.

Affordable homes

For Disposable people.

Cold Glass and Grey Steel

Continuously replace,

Warm Red Bricks and Bright Blue Skies.

Skies once punctuated by Hawksmoors Steeples,

Being blotted out by High Rise,

Upon High Rise,

Upon High Rise.

Ronan Point.



Multi Storey Tombstones

With inquiries in their name.

The pretty colour cladding

They wrap these buildings in

There to remedy

The rust and crumbling concrete

Of the original shoddy build.

Where the houses used to be

Elsie sits alone on the fourteenth floor

Down to her last quarter of tea.

And as the flames lick past her window

She sees the cranes in the distance

Building more towers,

Promising Luxury,

Replacing streets,

Replacing communities.

In years to come

There will be plaques of remembrance and cemeteries

Where the houses used to be.



Automatic Britain


Inspired mostly by this article  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-42559226 and discussions with my better half who is reading a book Life 3.0 about AI. Rise of the Robots indeed

Automatic Britain Baby,

It’s Coming.

Read The News.

You asked for a minimum wage

And they’ve digested all your views.

And decided on the whole,

It’s best you were replaced,

If this nation’s to compete,

In the global market place.


Robots don’t need paying.

Don’t need contracts.

Have no spirit,

No Burning Soul.

They won’t go sick,

Won’t jack it in,

Won’t ever claim the Dole.


Robots will not Unionise.

You don’t have to tell them twice.

Don’t have to pay them overtime,

Or give them the holidays of Christ.


They won’t turn up late

Or Stoned

Or Pissed.

HR Issues will no longer exist.


So run along fat boy,

With your cushy life,

Left wing ideals and human rights,

Automatic Britain’s coming baby,

And they have you in their sights.




Platform 9 and 3 sugars,

like toddlers taking early steps.

Arms outstretched to Mother.

Clutching our favourite toy;

A Coffee Cup,

A Shiny Phone,

Some hollow promise of joy.

Sleep Walking,

Just keep walking,

No Looking

No Talking

Doors Closing

“All our love making a synchronised smash”

We keep our heads down

We wait for the crash.



Mercurial Talent

Postal mews

Real Genius offers you the meaning of life

for nothing more than the price

of a can of super strength lager.

You put your eyes to the floor

and walk on by just a little bit faster.


Real Beauty eats out of date food

from the bins round the back of Tesco.

Whilst posh girls with eating disorders

wont get out of bed for less than a thousand

just to have their photo taken.


Real talent sings to no-one

in a dirty old pub

down by

Camden Station,

Whilst a fat ginger boy

with an acoustic guitar

sells out stadiums

across this sleeping nation


Real Heroes do

The jobs I cant do

They wipe the arse of someones sick mother

Pick the charred corpses of children

from towering inferno’s.

But they don’t receive these glittering prizes

or cash lump sums in praise.

Real Heroes just do

The jobs I cant do

for an ordinary working wage.



Fake News, Fake Tits

Fake Smile, Fake Money

Fake Tan, Fake ID

Nothings really what it seems

A False Promise leads to False Hopes

Fake Pills to help you cope

False Memories and False Limbs

I cant see where The Truth begins

Me I Got the Counterfeit Blues


siren calls


Everyday we have to cope with not only the noise in our own heads but the tirade of commands blasting from public address systems at railway stations. The current security message has really pissed me off.


Mind the Gap, Don’t tread on the cracks.

Stand clear of the doors please.

Mind your backs, Mind your backs.

Please keep your personal possessions with you at all times

Keep your hand on your ha’penny missus.

Smoking is not permitted anywhere in this station

but you can breathe the lead in the air

In warm weather stay hydrated, stay hydrated

Stay behind the yellow line

Give me a break for fuck sake

let me think for a minute

he’s a cunt, she’s a cunt, I’m a cunt

See it

Say it




The C Word


Always told not to say the C word and which word that is seems to have changed. Influenced by some lovely Julian Cope rantings on the demonisation of words in his epic Modern Antiquarian and with a definite nod to Roger McGough I give you this:

The C word.

A word you must not say,

A word you do not want to hear,

A word built on oppression and fear.


Word One – Cunt

There I said it, that is the easy one.

We have all seen one ,

We have all been one ,

And half of us have one.


Word Two – Cancer.

It kills your loved ones,

It breaks your heart,

And like the bogeyman in the dark;

It is coming to get you!


Word Three.

Worst in some ways of all.


Hate that stuff.

The May Queen

May Day, 1950.




Coming soon

To a screen near you.

The unwanted sequel

The Iron Lady 2.

How long did it take?

Barely a week!

Before the May Queen bared her teeth

To show she aint weak.

I’ll push the button

I’ll kill us all

I am the power

I am the glory.

Of course you are luv

A true fucking Tory.

Benefit Chicken Ultra


Universal Credit fails, all DWP premises are turned into “affordable housing” and Lever brothers own the food supply – this is the future of the high street and the poor

Chicken Shop , Bookmaker, Pound Shop, Charity Shop

Chicken Shop , Bookmaker, Pound Shop, Charity Shop

Chicken Shop , Bookmaker, Pound Shop, Charity Shop

The Rhythm of the street

In every run down town.

Its beat only broken by

Bank, Chemist, Newsagent.

It stutters for a moment

Then gets back down into the groove,

Chicken Shop , Bookmaker, Pound Shop, Charity Shop


The DWP and The NHS

Denied Secret Talks,

but now openly confess.

They wanna scrap Walk In Centres and Job Centre Plus

Replacing them with a one stop shop

less hassle

Less fuss



to fit in with the aesthetic of the street.

Claimants will receive a text demanding they attend

once, maybe twice a week

Walk in

Walk up to the counter

Pass your ID through the swipe

Put your phone on the RFID reader

Put your mouth round the plastic pipe


The assistant behind the counter barks

“Are you actively seeking work?”

And as you nod indicating compliance

your head shoots back with a jerk.

Your mouth is now full

of some greasy chicken ball

(or vegetarian option*)

that is shot full of vitamins and vaccines

and the latest untested drugs.

You swallow hard

Phone beeps text confirmation

Benefit Paid

Travel permitted

You are once again granted the freedom of association

Tagged and Tracked

You walk back to the tube station

Chicken Shop , Bookmaker, Pound Shop, Charity Shop

Chicken Shop , Bookmaker, Pound Shop, Charity Shop

Chicken Shop , Bookmaker, Pound Shop, Charity Shop

Mummy’s Boy

A response to Joe Corre banging on about burning his “valuable punk collection” (http://www.vice.com/read/joe-corre-burn-punk-memorabilia-photos).



Your Daddy Was A Swindler

Your Mum Is the Surrogate Queen

The Clothes you’re Threatening on Burning “MAN”

Are just part of your Parents Scene

You’re just an upmarket sex shop upstart

You mean Fuck All to me.

Wringing your hands

And raising your Media Profile

Whilst Whinging



Well Come to the Seaside SUNSHINE

To the run down bars & clubs.

See the young and the old

and the financially impaired

Dance to the UK Subs.

See Punk Destroy Despair

See Hope & Joy Prevail

Oh Bondage Up Yours

Fuck off and plan your summer sale!