Des Mannay (British Working Class Poetry)

Des Mannay is a disabled Welsh writer of colour. His first poetry collection, "Sod ’em – and tomorrow" is published by Waterloo Press. He is co-editor of The Angry Manifesto poetry journal. Winner -'rethinkyourmind' poetry competition (2015), LIT-UP poetry competition (2019). 2nd/ highly commended - Disability Arts Cymru poetry Competition (2015). 'Gold Award' - Creative Futures Literary Awards (2015). Shortlisted in 7 competitions, performed at numerous venues/festivals, and published in various poetry journals. Judge in the Valiant Scribe 'Vultures and Doves' poetry competition (USA). Work in or accepted for 41 poetry anthologies. Des is on facebook as "The stuff wot I wrote' Des Mannay - hooligan Poet" and Twitter as @hooliganpoet


The Fight 

Things are alright,

when you're in the fight


No time to think.

Can't even blink.


Punches to throw -

dodge the next blow.


Stick in the boot.

Chairs to uproot.


Tables to follow.

No time to wallow.


In self pity -

because life is shitty.


Throw some more punches,

fighting by hunches.


Its like painting by numbers -

except for the numbness.


Blood on your clothes.

Where from? No one knows.


The blood’s not from you -

its the other man's dew.


As it seeps through his skin,

aren't you glad its from him?


Its a bad tempered boy

who’s God is, "Destroy".


No point in holding back,

just continue to attack -


till the man spattered in red

has finally fled.


Its the angry man's brood,

and the thinking man's food.


Yes, its food for thought,

the lesson you're taught -


that in the end nothing really has changed,

just a few faces have been re-arranged.

No flames to tinder


Find people

aren't that

into me, see


Mother warned

had to tell girls

dad was Black.


Not what people

want to hear.

First date?



leads to

awkward silence.


Know why mum

told me this.

Sister and



never told

his parents.


Mother recalls

the look -

horror on


their faces,

when met

for wedding plans.


"Thought she

was Italian".

Not even Catholic...


See method

in the



These days

I find









Not a bird in a gilded cage


The Raven died before

dawn. Hunted down by

other birds. Committed

a crime against Aves


Disturbed the pecking

order. Flew across

county lines, to join

the feeding frenzy -


of predilection for

addiction. Went from

carrier to carrion, on

that fatal night


Think the magpies

did it. No conscience

in  their kill - to protect

status, gold and jewels.


The stars give witness

statements, about the

crime scene mob.

Clouds cry in despair.

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