Rhythm

It’s in the teacher

side-stepping out of time at the school disco.

It’s in the readership of the

Daily Mail, the Guardian and Nuts magazine.

It’s in the neighbours

complaining about the noise.

It’s in the belly of the binge drinkers,

the senior citizens on Saga holidays in Bognor Regis.

It’s in the airwaves of a Radio 4 discussion.

It gets played daytime on Heart FM.

It’s in the rails of an M&S end-of-a-season sale.

It’s in the petrol of a people carrier sat in a

half-term traffic jam somewhere on the M1.

It’s in the privileges of politicians,

the halls of Eton,

the tax return of a corporation

show-jumping through loopholes.

It’s in the church, the Bible and it reverberates around Canterbury cathedral.

It’s in the GCSE syllabus for English literature.

It’s in the cogs of industry,

the skyscrapers of financial districts,

the digits on spreadsheets typed by apathetic data entry clerk temps hungover from the night before.

It’s in company client databases,

bland food, cups of tea and any exotic meal ordered with chips.

It’s in the sick of a drunk teen on holiday with his mates in Málaga.

It’s poured into pints in undersubscribed working men’s clubs up north.

It’s in the shattered fragments of a pint glass lobbed at a pub

jumbo screen upon England being made to look like an

amateur team and getting knocked out of another international

football tournament, round two penalties.

It’s in the knitting needles of the Women’s Institute, the

badges of a Cub and the sash of a Brownie.

It’s in the tones of those who wish to tut at what they don’t

understand or have never had the bollocks to try,

just an arse to sit on and a mouth to criticise.

It’s in the pain of those who’ve never had a chance,

just an ill-fitting collar that grips tight around the neck.

It’s in my bones, any time I think about that second Amen break

on that ‘Acid Trak’ by Dillinja and I screw up my face,

and it’s in the prisoner, banging repetitions of unheard dissent