Come on Theresa, shake that magic money tree.
The possession of cash flow is what divides us.
As long as we have enough to pay the Council Tax at the end of the year because I really want someone to police my bins.
Now sanctimonious prats are calling Basic Income, money for nothing.
I call them rats.
We are born to a country that taxes us as soon as we are old enough.
There is a central pot of money called the Treasury into which many people pay.
I used to do the same I have to say.
But then I got sick of trying, I got sick, a melancholy malady that had been with me, quite possibly from the day I was born.
Now I self stigmatise myself, I treat myself with scorn.
I don't allow anybody close enough to do the same, this working and paying tax, it's all a game.
We all need money to live but not to exist.
At the Government we all raise our fist.
Mark Twain said that the world didn't owe us a living, I don't think that is very forgiving.
Everything comes with conditions.
If there was enough quality work about then many of us wouldn't shirk but working for the existing wage?
I'm sick but not a berk.
This work/life condundrum is getting really humdrum, to the point I can't think about anything else.
CV, Interview, Suit to do what kind of job?
I feel like a ghost moving through the Queen Street Shoppers.
Badly dressed, unimpressed.
It is the gaze of the female I try to avoid.
Rightly or Wrongly I feel that they judge me.
Not hunter nor gatherer, just a bad poet carrying a locket of my mother's hair.
In Limbo Land heavy wooden blocks of progress cannot be shifted.
By the time I started my first job my father had retired.
I came back from selling print in Llangollen and cried.
It's all very well being 'pleidiol wyf i'm gwlad' but there are no fucking jobs here.
So over the porous border we troop so we can eat something more nourishing than soup.
Liverpool, Manchester or Bristol
If I had the balls I'd blow my brains out with an antiquarian flint lock pistol.
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