The Northern Powerhouse




We’re still here as wind whips white powder

across aborted roads till our eyes sting.

It sticks in the throat like surrender

from the slumped union man, red tie flapping

in the coordinated attack from the dust

and the galeforce stink of chicken shit someone dumped

last night to keep the numbers down. They already cut

the cables on number 1, said the shaft was unsafe, couldn’t

leave it, oh Lordy, no, Health & Safety, gone

now but it was safe enough until the last three weeks

to send working men down to keep the lights on.

Now the brass band plays Abide with me

as the handmade banner fights the wind.

This is where we’re from. This is who we are.


We’re still here after Buyout: Closure,

Buyout: Closure, times two; last one gifted

to a rich man’s son. What’s wrong with an old Micra,

like that stolen one that just drifted

over the rubble on the roundabout?

Every time we kept the union alive.

80% ballots left no room for doubt,

just like in the war when they went on strike

for the right to have soap. They hated Hitler

and defended their country underground,

but they didn’t care much for Churchill either.

Record productions followed by shutdowns,

markets rigged by free market excuses.

This is where we’re from. This is who we are.


We’re still here, though they’re determined to wipe us out,

not just because it’s a pit, not because it’s coal,

not just because it’s where our past got its power,

but because we represent a vision, a whole

different world. No wonder we’re bitter with chasers

of ashes in Poundland, bought off with knock-off Prada bags.

It’s a bit late to say, Don’t be political

in top-down class warfare where that black stuff is taxed

to death so they can sob lies at her funeral.

As the band plays Jerusalem we will not cease

from mental fight, will never bow to urbane devils

of privilege who sell us War in the name of Peace,

and sneer hope lies dead after all we’ve gained through struggles.

This is where we’re from. This is who we are.

And we’re still here.


Copyright © 2015. Jimmy Andrex

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved

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The Marxist Dada Stool Club




We lost our faith in democracy

Capitalism and markets,

So we decided to get creative

And chose some better targets.


Some things can’t be properly

Conveyed just using words,

So we decided to start the fightback

Swapping petrol bombs for turds.


Take it to the enemy,

Strike a dagger in their vampire hearts

On the 7th, 9th and 18th greens,

Being careful not to fart.


We’ve ten years of clean getaways,

They still think it’s just one man,

But they misjudged the power of artists

With our precision bombing plan.


Sneak in and squat on the target,

Though it might seem base and mean,

Bomb the symbols of elitism and privilege,

But wipe your arse: stay clean.


We’re the Marxist Dada Stool Club,

A dedicated crew.

We’re credible and we deliver,

Our policy is always to follow through.


It might look crude and simple,

But I don’t suggest you try it

Unless you’re thorough and committed

And on a high fibre diet.


We’re the Marxist Dada Stool Club,

We don’t need a pooper scooper.

Bare our backsides at austerity,

It makes more sense than Yvette Cooper.


Copyright © 2015. Jimmy Andrex

Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved