From Spongers Paul Weller’s Riot Stories 1984 poetry anthology, edited by Dave Potter.

Don’t Just Sit There

When you’ve been stabbed so many times,
When you’ve slapped your heart on the butcher’s table,
And watched the bastards slice and steal it as souvenirs,
When you’ve forgotten yourself
And wonder whether the sun is shining behind the curtains:
Open them for God’s sake.

Nicola Connelly

From Spongers Paul Weller’s Riot Stories 1984 poetry anthology, edited by Dave Potter.

The Usual

In my day everybody worked, no question
(Now there’s unemployment, remember?)
When I was young the sun shone
(It still does)
We used to have a good time; work hard, play hard
(Not enough money, not enough smiles)
I feel sorry for you
(But pity won’t do me any good)
But why can’t you be normal?
(So what’s normal?)
Why can’t you be like me?
(I’m myself, nobody else)
How do you know you won’t like it if you don’t try it?
(I know what I hate, trust me)
I admire you for it, of course
(Pity and admiration? I can’t believe that)
But what if…
(I could go on supplementary)
And what would you do…
(I’d still be looking)
I don’t like to see you like this
So what do you expect?

Rosemary White

Spongers was a poetry collection published by Paul Weller’s Riot Stories in 1984, edited by Dave Potter.

The Pay Day Corner

The pay day corner of the street
Where nobody stands still
And money is paper thin
On homeless walls.
A congregation of lovers tells secrets
To newspapers buying the evening edition of fun –
Tomorrow will come with a bang and a black eye
I’ll send you my thoughts in return for their peace of mind.

John Watkins

From Spongers Paul Weller’s Riot Stories 1984 poetry anthology, edited by Dave Potter.

Love On The Dole

“He’ll never get a job” – they say
so maybe I should marry a millionaire
and spend my days in sunny climes
draped in finery, eating delicacies
– the world is my oyster, laid at my feet.
But you buy me chips when I’m hungry
and at nights in the pub a half pint of beer
and I love the way you look at me sometimes,
turning all my dreams into realities
– besides, I’ve never met a millionaire.

Cathy Harris

Spongers was a 1984 poetry collection published by Paul Weller’s Riot Stories, edited by Dave Potter.

A Night On The Town

The city was built for poets,
A parade of constant events.
The neon whistles in colour,
And Nelson’s earning his rent.
But yet, but yet,
Some miss the social safety net.

Down In The Underground

A woman who wouldn’t have worried
If the escalator has never moved.
And an unknown human in a coat of thread,
Just showing the world a scum of hair,
Unchanged from arrival to departure.

Later Outside

A man topples over
Broken by the clear-eyed dawn.
Losers
Don’t owe the world a thing,
A clever thought to scribble down
On my homeward train.

Tony Dixon

Spongers was a poetry collection published by Paul Weller’s Riot Stories in 1984. It was edited by Dave Potter who wrote on the back cover: ‘The overall effect of this collection we hope to be one of strength and a collective No to despondency.
Out of this Tory era a new mood must grow from young people. A mood of resistance and ultimately one of Faith in themselves. For there is precious little else to put your faith into anymore.
The picture these poems paint we hope is part of this mood that must come. This isn’t a book of ‘dole queue whines’. It isn’t a book by ‘Lazy sods who don’t even want to work’. It is compiled (from out of the 700 or so people who sent in their work) from people who are telling of the effects the Thatcher reign of reaction has on their lives and others.’

Sullen Street

Woolies, Burtons and superdrug
beckoning lights to capture the money spending bug
loud ringing tills
solicitors bills
a cut price defeat
runs the length of Sullen Street.

Records, books and cards
betting shops and Wimpy bars
burning suns and melting tar
as carbon monoxide pours from endless cars
bidding a hasty retreat
rushed the crowd in Sullen Street.

Memorial plaques
generation gaps
Oxfam and help the aged
news stand portrays horror front pages
glooms always so concrete
enclosed inside Sullen Street.

Stand and talk
speechless and walk
people and shops
forever pulling down blinds
solitude designed with a constant closed sign
with barriers and divisions
searching providence but musing indecisions
the pacing of lives in downtrodden feet
the sadness in eyes that glazingly meet
pains now so indiscreet
installed inside each Sullen Street.

Viv Wheeler