It’s Not A Trend, It’s A Necessity #spokenword

It’s Not A Trend, It’s A Necessity

Gotta keep up with the
Kardashians mentality,
‘It’s not a trend it’s a necessity,’
trapped in triviality,
keeping you from
seeing reality.

Do what you’re told
because you’re worth it.
Seem to be sold
out, sorry, who’s worth it?

Examine your eyebrows
with laser focus,
while the forests burn
you’re taciturn.

But butt implants
are more essential
than the last rare plant
destroyed, as torrential
rains and flash floods
bless the blood
of children, spilled
in war for oil.

Your botox is crucial
for your facial
brutal atrocity
across the nations,
is normalised.
Don’t forget your eyes
need a grand of lashes,
while a different brand,
in Saudi slashes
for one who dares to
Speak. Of. Freedom.

They said it was worth it.

It’s not a trend.
It’s a necessity.

©️Janey Colbourne 2018

Culture: a poem about modern culture in a post-industrial town.

The small towns in the North of England were once the centre of the cotton manufacturing industry, using cotton imported from India during the time of the British Empire, because the damp climate was ideal for working with the cotton fibres, enabling efficient cotton spinning and weaving. These ‘cotton towns’ were heavily industrial, their skylines dominated by mill chimneys and smog. In 1931 Gandhi visited Darwen in Lancashire. The cotton industry here began to decline during India’s fight for independence. The mill workers wanted Gandhi to see the poverty caused by the decline of the industry, but poverty is relative-it was nothing in comparison to the poverty in India. I wrote this poem about life in a Northern town in this post-industrial era. The smog is gone, but the grim conditions of the mill industry have been replaced by something far more insidious: neoliberalism and the throwaway consumer culture. The factories are out of sight, out of mind, out of the country, and churning out endless mass-produced plastic goods, designed to keep us spending and consuming, with short-lived use and eternal life as trash.

The relative poverty is still here. The damp is still here. Welcome to the North.



Pound shops and takeaways,

salons for grooming of

dogs and their owners

sit side by side.

Rancid fat acrid

in back alley junk piles,

settees and Christmas trees

slowly decay.

Damp homes

in damp climate

for cotton mill workers

no longer needed.

The forest of chimneys

now superseded

by new build in miniature,

room sizes shrinking,

like chocolates and crisps,

the packets get smaller

while the prices go

through the roof.

©️Janey Colbourne 2017

Here’s a link to my spoken word/ambient recording of the poem on SoundCloud