The Poetry Factory — The Surveyor Poet

The Poetry Factory

This poem is a song.

This poem has a soul.

This poem is a place.

The poetry trinity – let’s go.

This is the poetry factory.

Grab a high-vis and a spoke.

Cast me mettle, I’m a foundry.

Manchester is The First Smoke.

This is the poetry factory.

We make things differently here.

Our lyrics hold power like batteries,

powered by acid and beer.

This is the poetry factory.

We produce ballads of bands.

Counting our records like calories,

numbers are music in my hands.

This is the poetry factory.

Rhymes rise on a conveyer belt –

pictures so vivid, it’s olfactory.

We melt hard rock hearts to smelt.

This is the poetry factory.

Magpies slaving in steelworks.

I put the indie in industry

before we’re mechanical birds.

This is the poetry factory –

meanings of mass production.

Sonnets in a tin? Yes we cannery.

Manc rap puts the “gum” in gumption.

Is music a poem?

Is music a product?

Do songs know where we’re going?

Are songwriters publishing books?

This is the poetry factory.

We serve slice life like bread.

So daily wholesome, we’re granary.

“My sex is on fibre,” she said.

This is the poetry factory.

Manufacture goods, not labels.

Fuck doctor ducks and their quackery –

they scatter letters, we Babbel.

This is the poetry factory.

We recycle alphabet, air.

Our words hang beauty like galleries.

Couplets touching: hands in prayer.

This is the poetry factory.

Every poem is a cross.

There’s hills in my sticks – I’m from calvary.

Like sculpture, we take shape from loss.

Is religion a poem?

Is religion a product?

Do believers know where we’re going?

Are prophets publishing books?

This is the poetry factory.

Proletariat gentrified minds.

Put down your strawberry daiquiri,

prawn sandwich. Have a loaf in a pint.

This is the poetry factory.

Our apartments flatpack the sky.

Take it as a form of flattery

to repeat the streets so high.

This is the poetry factory.

I may be green but I won’t

protest about cranes or taxis.

Pollution spews from the throat.

This is the poetry factory.

We fill more rooms than the elephant.

Build empires with our menagerie.

Even our ants work in development.

This is the poetry factory.

I regen towns like Dr. Who.

We salad streets for a salary,

constructing nouns till they do.

Is a place a poem?

Is a place a product?

Do planners know where we’re going?

Are developers publishing books?

This is the poetry factory.

I give birth to bloody deadlines.

Helluva level of mastery

to mother assembly lines.

This is the poetry factory.

I can make you feel every textile.

Machine emotions are facts. We

grew up on cotton, not as AI.

This is the poetry factory.

We spin yarns, right and weft.

If you’re sitting satisfactory,

I’ll tall tales till no height’s left.

This is the poetry factory.

Our people’s pulse never ends

like the rain – like light, sound refracts me.

City rhythm is my best friend.

This is the poetry factory.

Dum dum dum dum dum dum dum.

This is the poetry factory!

Dum dum dum dum dum dum dum!

I hope you keep hearing our thrum.

Here’s to the love labourers who’ve come ; )