Hold your family, avoid letting it slip,
release other monkeys – to loosen their grip;
your double-edged sword is running too deep,
its arced-scything blade cutting beneath;
disengage from turmoil, wars are never won,
but battles should stop – especially your own.
“We will not go
quietly into the night
“We will not vanish
without a fight
“We’re going to live on
We’re going to survive
“Today, we question
their ignorant lies!
[ apologies to @rolandemmerich ]
Another charity shop has opened up,
its shelves already whiff with stock,
featuring Atwood’s ‘Alias Grace’,
and the lower-shelved words of Peter James;
his ranking fixed by alphabetic rules,
although Margaret does classier vowels.
Pressed shirts hang, stiff with starch,
whilst dead man shoes no longer dance;
A range of aged prints catch the eye,
Picasso hangs, yours to buy;
Retired golf clubs stand on guard,
their shine worn down, over par;
That jug you gave to your old friend Jane,
she’s re-donated, so you buy it again.
For Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson
Those jokes he makes:
no lattes today
no more croissants
Under the right’s
the one he wishes
they had lost
which has given him
a stab at leadership
before the result.
Stop all the clicks, cut off the internet,
Prevent the right from barking on your feed,
Silence the news and wireless hum
Brexit announced, let the mourners come.
Let Osborne circle, tweeting overhead
Posting the message Cameron Is Dead,
Put hands round the necks of Remaining love
Let the riot police wear black cotton gloves.
Europe was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought Europe would last: I was wrong.
Union stars are not wanted now: delete our one;
Pack up the trade and dismantle the fun
Pour away the wine and mop up the blood
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
[Apologies to WH Auden]
A small moth
fell into my wine
on the red tension
whilst leaving its powder
off useless wings
I lifted it
from the struggle
with a capped pen
now I write it
in red ink
I wake again
a shrinking isle
is not my choice
our country screwed
put the lights out
I’ll not return
what tossers joked
is now incurred.
That never-made aircraft,
I vowed to complete,
is left high up,
beyond your reach,
re-folded, unread –
a father-and-son thing,
We can build it, I said.
To be hung from the ceiling,
our flown fabrication,
in truth scaled-back,
like most obligations.
That occasional sighting
the High Street
two school classes
with due care
the relative elderly
from the excitement
I no longer sleep
in one place
not ’til late
on our half wed-bed
not in time
to take broadcast views
for the shipping news.