George Trueman

Funeral Pyre

I breathe like a sprained ankle,

Cumbersome marathon runner,

Heaving excuses stomach to mouth,

The eloquent vomit sprayed over smoking areas,

Feels better to wipe away 

Hoping it won’t come out again,

In the air my ribs will creak,

 like stairs we creep,

To nights you house kept secret, 

Like wooden dining chairs when you see me, 

Afraid that these situations will always end the same, 

A blank stare,

Call me a coward but I’d have loved like a dying fire,

Now I am smothered in embers,

The new kind of funeral pyre. 

I wrote funeral pyre to reflect on a relationship and theorise what could be said to bring me closure to myself, as well as how the nature of the breakup leaves me with an overwhelming sense of grief and loss. The poem leads its subject to find their own way to grieving and finding peace. 


Swimming Pools

My Brain left in a jar, 

from half open doors allow me to see it, 

a far sight clearer I hardly used it anyway,

It was mostly serious, Injury prone to fixing things,

Was I delirious? 

From the hallow remains of my being,

Hard of hearing bad at seeing,

Swimming around in someone else’s underwear,

It is hardly my own,

A bag of bags,

Cracking hopeless bones,

I don’t eat,

I sit,

All I want is to embrace my internal moans,

At least then it says something, 

Even if that something is just, 

I’m hungry.

 

I wrote swimming pools after thinking about my childhood experiences of being forced to swim and the anxiety I always felt, being one of the few children who couldn’t afford swimming trunks. Also, how that feeling never really went away. Going to uni didn’t fix simply how hollow I felt, even after trying my hardest. As a child of poverty, you feel this kind of pointless hopelessness to ever really escape it; my background influences every reaction without my control. 


Self-Consumption

She a red sofa with wine stained arms 

 sprawled out across, cat asleep over the legs, 

Drink was all she ever was, 

Once she is gone all that will be left, 

Is the bottle.


Self-consumption is a short poem reflecting the unique experience of being a child of alcoholism.   


Little Britain

Int: Living room- day 

TWO PEOPLE sit in reclining chairs both staring gormless at a tv. It shows images from parliament in an almost renaissance still as they jostle for attention. 

A YOUNG SKINHEADED PERSON almost gender neutral in appearance steps from behind one politician. 

YOUNG PERSON: 

Shhh. Little Britain’s on tv. Hear that? Meaningless words fill ‘void. A now known will of the people. Which once was a parasite expedited upon six million now the dog rears its ugly head. Keith said it best- “silence equals death” British class consciousness became second to Yuppies and stock market traders. Big ballers and brands become blameless. Passion and project become sales technique. You need to become a public whore just to have a bed to sleep. In between the lines is small print. “June 6th, we lost our collective empathy”. Do you think your parents knew what’s best for me? When they ticked that box in their little Britain.  “I want that one” what a great decision. 

Now clearly they are a northern working class youth. 

Northern powerhouses formerly foggy with factories. Now in weed smoked apathy. But what point is there to anything if we see blokes with chains and big notes tv fame and dick game. Cut back suck fat f___k that! We’re told that less is more Simply so we can ignore exponential growth of a top four minority. While poverty stricken tv watchers recline into their sinkers. But hey its ok let’s binge another show all day. I’m ultimately as much to blame. Sorry to bite the hand that feeds. Quiet now little Britain is back on.

THE END

 

I wrote Little Britain following the EU referendum and the relevance has only worsened as time has gone. I imagine Little Britain to be an insight to the living rooms of many working-class communities like the ones I grew up around. Many of the tools of the oppressor are ingrained into the working classes day to day life, and you can point out the rotten roots to it all, but ultimately, as someone from that community, how much of your success comes down to the good will of the bourgeoise? I am also attempting to highlight the rise of far-right ideology in poorer communities, as a young person trying to diagnose the root cause of these problems. Also, fuck Little Britain. I hate that show. 


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 Written by George Trueman

I am a 20-year-old poet & writer from Bradford. Originally wanting to join politics, I pivoted to create art as it was the quickest way for me to express my thoughts and feelings about complex matters in a succinct and confident way.