Trumpf Coverage

Covfefe gets coverage
and Trumpf is berated,
tweeted from his iPhone
which had been confiscated:

He had rang up Melania
from his POTUS bed,
‘How do you spell ‘coverage’?’
Her reply he mis-heard..

‘Ka-Oh-va..
fff-ee-fff-eee..’
POTUS sounded the letters,
quite carefully,

but pressed ‘Tweet’ too quick
(with his very small fingers) –
covfefe hung there,
like a bad fart it lingers.

The Witness

They are overshadowed by that evergreen giant,
the one thousand year witness to ceremonies,
to burials, and namings.

Coal was once hoarded where the hollowing
of the yew meets the earth. There, inside God’s tree,
they find a held shelter,

but the air is reduced, taxine within the yew’s
five propped branches, he is hallucinating
as he tastes her,

that passed mead of love, now drugged by her.
Add Odin’s ability to bind and unbind,
and a two millennia lie,

he has no defences left, hung, and crucified
by the centre of her which wets his fingers
in the yew’s compression.

Englishmess

Reduce the Brits – take away their tea –
and Jaguar – Mini – and Wedgwood pottery –
All sold off – the last of British treasures –
what’s now left to make Britain special?

The Great British dinner – battered fish and chips?
Actually a recipe from Jewish immigrants –
The gold we hold in the Bank of England?
No – it’s ‘ta’ to Huguenots for banking millions –

Ah – nothing more Albion than our ancient royals?
Nein – migrant blue blood now long-despoiled –
But Punch ‘n’ Judy – that traditional beach farce?
Alas Italian – their commedia dell’arte –

OK – Saint George – a true Sainted Brit?
No – a Syrian son – with a dragon – illlegit –
Right – polo – how English – on the lawns of Windsor?
Sadly for you from the dusty kingdom of Persia –

That mothers’ ruin poured from gin distilleries?
Been shipped in barrels from overseas –
Pigeon racing – ’tis Northern – an ‘Oop-North’ fancy?
Nay lad – flown in by Belgian bird-loving royalty –

The Womens’ Institute – cake and Englishness?
Sorry – Canada made it and Wales repossessed –
That well-mannered bear – who as kids we well knew?
Ah – even Paddington Bear is a foreigner too –

This country of confusions – imports and invention –
is at its British best when admitting immigration

E031118

How do you mute a problem like Katie?

[Apologies to Oscar Hammerstein II, none to Katie Hopkins]

How do you mute a problem like Katie?
How do you catch a cow and pin it down?
How do you find a word that means Katie?
A fascist-in-favour, a will-o’-the wisp! A clown!

Many a-thing you know she’d like to tell you,
many a-thing she so mis-understands,
but how do you make her mute,
to listen to what you say,
being sacked is part of her bigger plan:

Oh, how do you solve a problem like Katie?
How do you get Hopkins forever banned?
When I hear her I’m confused,
ears bleeding and bemused,
And I know that she doesn’t give a f*cking damn.

#GE2017

There will be a ballot
with outcomes unknown,
but the resulting state
could be one that’ll harm,
it may finally remove
the vestiges of pride
which were the first choice
of the winning side,
that construction of faith,
more real than dead Gods,
off socialist embers
fired after the war.

When you make your mark
it will determine the fate
of the care of your family,
the future price paid.
Each ballot with a cross,
is a kiss for the carers,
a token of love,
for the state which will keep us.
Or leave it, don’t bother,
make a mark for the rich,
and let them get fat
on the illness of kids;
let them turn profits
on dementia, new business,
let them trade shares
in your family’s sickness.

The Red Bridge

I long for a ghost to greet me here,
halfway across the rust red bridge,

to challenge me now with a lover’s kiss,
which burns to red on my own dry lips.

Her hair to fall long, beyond death’s hold,
but her neck, her face a brush of cold:

and for me to lean into death’s cool mask,
for me to succumb to her breath of chance:

inhale the vacuum expunged from her lungs,
and I breathe into her my breath of song.

Contrails

The words
‘under contrails’
rounded on me,
those raised scars,
high gatherings
of man-made clouds
over this county,

the icy remnants
of others’ flights
to warmer climes,
and I was grounded
by the weight of my foot
after foot:

I no longer dream
of taking off,
arms wide,
a kick and up,
but I leave a trail
of sorts.

Where I Sit

I sat with care
on a wide (sawn) stump,
it cut back
by an oxidised blade,

I found a seat
of chamfered comfort,
but still a hard cushion
of battered rings,

where the rounded years
had been taken 
by the scouring rain,
and the decay of things;

now rubbed back,
grooves removed,
until the turn of time
had been loosened,

and the history of it all,
once held central,
had been hard-weathered,
no more nature’s annal.

Seven point five

A boot-sucked drop
down through Views Wood,
across a mud-scuffed bridge,
and the ditch in half-flood,
I clamber, not climb,
up the leaf-pressed path,
the rooted friction
is the step and staff,
then led straight on
by the hawthorn hedge,
the sun a million miles
off to my left,
and on to the centre
of a man’s dictate,
under an oak
into the ‘Private Estate’
of neat-lopped birches,
a graze-readied patch,
across the tarmac
past Buxted House,
a hotel for a night,
I wait to wake one time,
where the haa-haa dips,
where the grazed declined:
Up to the church,
with no village encroach,
but now a lone landmark,
of curious ghosts,
of gravestones’ tilt,
and a gate held fast,
where gothic still creeps
on buttress and nave,
but under Christ’s yew tree
the past still prays,
whilst far cross the valley,
the village now lays,
and down past the pillbox,
no old battle ground,
here the tilted cry
of the dead – never found.
Across to the gate
where the grounds expire,
this is the time
I so long desire.

Not Northern Enough

I am not northern enough
to be a radio poet,
not a McGough, a McMillan,
or a Normal kinda bloke.

I am not street enough
to holler as a slam artist,
not a Sia, Poppa E.,
or even Kate Tempest.

I am not black enough
to rhyme with the best,
not MC Drake,
nor a Kanye West.

I am not angry, outraged,
able to bark,
like Attila the Stockbroker
or John Cooper Clarke.

I am (Attila said)
‘the other poetry.’
In which case I’ll exult
with my southern dignity.

Miracle on Downing Street

Saint Theresa knows what is good for us now –
she sings ‘Hallelujahs’ and takes a low bow

as she cleans the feet of the blessed rich
whilst loosening her grip on their privatised bits

She’s touched The Trump – held the hand of God
and now she is saying Come and buy the lot!

And on Election Day – perhaps in 2022
when they’ve won again – against the too few

you might turn round and look back on this time
and regret the miracles you left behind –

the medicine – the doctors – the freedom to move –
the care for the elderly – state schools improved –

the future for kids – ours without privilege –
the rights we had – to stand up ‘n still rage

When the state that blessed us is sold for our good,
you’ll have no one to trust, except Theresa’s rich gods


E281118

It

Remaindered on Amazon, an unread tome,
that Tory horror story: ‘The Manifesto’.

Launched in Yorkshire (for Gothic effect),
a fiction, or future? You The Reader elects:

The monster, the creature, a clown called ‘May’,
rises from the drains to suck young lives away.

From the wrong side of the tracks our hero steps –
Jeremy shouts about the clowning threats.

Deaf to his warnings (of hospitals sucked dry,
of schools destroyed, of the old left to die),

the constituency of Hereabouts sees only May’s grin,
but you, The Reader, are not taken in:

They flock to the clown’s carnival show
(“the last clown lady was very good you know”).

But Reader, you too, will be dragged on your back,
as this horror story becomes a fact.

The Tory Manifesto, a cliffhanger for the kids?
Is this the future? Will they have to live with ‘It’.

 

As featured in ‘The Dangerous Globe’ HERE