Pip
Permanently imprisoned, Peter
The generation aren’t suffering anxiety
They are trapped as Peter Pan
With the ever increasing house prices, the lack of good jobs, the inability to form relationships.
We left our kids stuck, never able to grow up, so they rot, became more unfulfilled.
Imprisoned as a child.

Lack of hope, regression into computer games,
Fake achievement, never seeing a friend.
Trapped at mom and daddy's, enjoying a house price rise and a pension.
Knowing on an Asda salary their best hope of owning a house
Is to mortgage themselves to the point coffee is too much.
A holiday a dream, travel done after uni, not later.
And retirement at 75, ready for a care home.

Odd winner getting graduate jobs and escaping as Wendy birds.
If that was your life, wouldn’t you be depressed?
Score.
On PIP.

They finally get a house — mom and dad die, if they avoid a care home.
The American dream at 65 — homeowners, no hard work.
But not killing yourself before mom and dad
With ****, drink, or a rope.
Even a car, boy to see his friends — with insurance is too much to ask unless mom and dad help.
Three years at university — that being out on license.

Mom and dad need a care home, it will all be taken away.
Ironically being orphaned at 40 is winning.
Take another spliff, try to not look forward.
You will lose your PIP, have your last bit of freedom taken.

Oliver's son is still asleep on the sofa.

The only way to get a house
Is to get a baby when you’re not ready.
Hope the state gives you one.
Enjoy the poetry.
This generation doesn’t have Charles Dickens.
The beauty being made into delicate snowflakes,
To be crushed under Jackboots of a failed system.

Only the old work-from-home people don’t have to worry about the snow.
You don’t get a waterproof house as you walk to work.
Child unable to build even a snowman, let alone a life,
While mom can’t see beauty in a snowflake.
From their house, tax you to pay for their pension.
To envy mom's frozen tears, leaving no trail to tell of the suffering.

Of course PIP is gone.
Your low wage is the old greatness gift.
If you get a snow shovel, food, you might make your own path.
But I’ve Deliveroo food.
I don’t want to go out there in my boots.
I will catch a cold or COVID.
It’s number 9.
Close the gate behind you.

You step off the path — 3 stars.
Think about that.
I enjoy my meal.
Don’t ask for more.
Oliver sings and dances on West End now.
No dancing in my conscience for you asking for more, sir.

Bing bing — one delivery of gruel.
Get walking.
Time for sale.
Don’t eat my gruel.
Better be warm and delivered with a smile.
A second 3 star — you are on the sofa.
Hope mom got nice house.

Good news — it’s Oliver’s house.
Wasn’t he fortunate to inherit so much.
Now Charles wears a crown,
Doesn’t use a weapon of pen and ink.

No how dare u ask me for more
I lost my free tv license I will have u know
God snowflakes how much is the wagu today
Not frozen wagu I don’t like to defrost
How was job search son ? Find anything?
Well you’re only young me at 36

There’s a circus tent in my yard
It’s big and wide,
And stands with pride,
A fortress at night

There’s a circus tent in my yard
In every yard on the block
However empty they are in the day
In the dark the clowns flock
Big and tall
Or micro small
They all have the same wardrobe of despair

I want to grab their hand
And lean down man to man
Say that I have joined a circus or two
And know the feeling of solitude
But they will simply honk their horns
Look at me with scorn
Because I do not know the Canadian cold
Is what makes their noses red
I do not know that their faces are frozen,
not white painted on their head

There’s a circus tent in my city
It’s big and wide
But there’s no clowns in sight
Only people to pity
For whom we cannot provide

There’s a clown in my yard
But he does not sit in a tent
Instead he sports a suit and tie
Seemingly never the bad guy
Justin Trudeau repent!

there were dandelions on the grass
dear girl, the smell of an Alcatraz flower is fresh on my linen
but sometimes I look back
and wonder if this city wears a too thick a coat
while it struts pantless over the sidewalks of
Macarther Park

there is liturgy mumbled, a woman waving her hands in the air–
Sunday school prayers being learned in Spanish
tri-folded pamphlets on the floor
and gum over the pavement blackened by the cooperative march
of immigrant workers speaking in all tongues and carrying
on their backs, the tower of babel while halted at a red light

heavy cargo trucks speeding down Alameda Street
wearing down the road and the patience of drivers
tents multiplied, and R.V's lining the streets  
the old buildings being torn down and neighboring apartments  getting face-lifts  
"beautification"
costs
more than headshots–
more than a rhinoplasty–
more than the real estate of DTLA–
when you see two kids come out of a tent with their school backpacks on
–you begin to grasp the price

Is this what Keats meant: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever "
even while destitute
the neon pink on their bags seemed like another gift of spring
and their perseverance the paragon of  a psalm of life

It is raining   and it is Christmas in L.A
the home       of paramount pictures  and the home        of skid row

Each drop multiples         heavy
like the narratives             given
to justify                             why
some deserve to be           out on the streets

on day like this when the water pours and seeps into their tents   bridges cannot hide or cover                         our collective apathy                           (shame) as we cross  
into the next decade    “i am not to blame
if he/ she / they            don’t have a home
what a shame.”