Neoliberalism – The Box Set


Democracy is now a box set,
an entrance and exit farce,
a short comedy of situation –
laughter at Ed Balls’ odd dance.

We – the strapped-in audience
– with our contract, paying-to-view,
watch these series evolve,
produced by the political few:

They’ll direct the rape of services,
and write-out aged stars,
they’ll script the tawdry screenplay,
and expect us to play the parts.

Our rights have been lost to our stories,
no repeat fees paid for mistakes,
the masked bureaucrats run the studio,
they sweep aside the costly out-takes.

“True Democracy – A Filthy History”:
We sit before our sixty-inch screens,
we are dealt the marked House of Cards:
On sofas no one hears your screams.


Pooh Bear Travels


Cameron has spoken,
but not to us,
instead he’s been paid
by the rich in the US;
his career rebooted
on the speaking circuit,
that place where failure
is circumvented.
And his old neighbour,
George-the-disjunct,
is raking in pounds
also speaking in tongues.


 

Please #Retweet For #Shelter

Each #TweetForShelter
@BritishGas will donate
£1 to Shelter,
with the aim to raise
twenty five thousand
of their profited quid:
Please tag your friends,
raise a million instead:
Today, quick-twitter,
do this one fleet tap,
retweet this quick poem,
to lift a kid from her trap,
and help a family,
without a secure life:
This one xmas tweet
could ensure they survive.

Look It Up


Today some librarians
were summarily shot,
others had their licked-fingers
lopped:

No fresh cash to buy,
no more books to improve –
libraries to re-define
‘desuetude’:

Once places to search
word-oddities,
where we pulled from the shelves
fat dictionaries,

but without re-filling
the reference sections,
truth will be left
to Google’s introjections.


NEWS STORY HERE

Would We Stand at Orgreave?

Would we dig deep shifts,
in the coughed guts of this land,
then take home the spat news
our livelihoods have gone?

Would we vote, stand,
to the voiced-charges they made,
that our coal industry, our life,
is not there, will not pay?

Would we shout and argue,
now the future isn’t ours,
and gather at police lines,
faith in this, our last cause?

Would we dare to hold
our sunburnt ground,
before the police horses,
and rage of police hounds?

On Clement’s second call,
when horses charge again,
would we remain, standing,
as honest pit men?

Would we have the strength
to battle any more,
or did Thatcher crush it all
in her short civil war?

Guardian Video

Grudge Match


No new-built Britannia,
no tax-pirate ship:
A small piece of Britain!
It’ll cost zillions of quids!

A gift for us all!
Worth every penny!
But pounds buy less,
unsure how many:

A floating gin palace?
Build no more yachts,
we’re pre-Brexit sunk,
we have spent the pot;

now England’s stuck
at Scottish loggerheads,
build deathly Successors,
load the warheads,

aim them at Holyrood,
and prepare for launch,
Eton mess made good
by Boris’ first war.


 

Pooh Bear Did Sh*t in the Woods

…here.

My last poem
about David Cameron:
Sadly, ‘Pooh’ will never
come back again:

Off to ponder,
‘tiddle-tut-tut’,
To wander the forests,
with his wife – Piglet;

Along the sandy paths
of the Algarve,
To plan their future –
not too hard,

Because, thinking a lot
taxes Pooh,
Unlike the Revenue,
who will still tax you;

So wave ‘bye-‘bye
to the short-shirted bear,
he left us in sh*t
piled up to.. [Go to first line]

Posh-born

#cpc17-01.png
You can judge a man
by the width of his smirk,
revealing, briefly,
his mind at work:

Front bench foolery
can be explained,
whilst the country’s soul
is slowly drained:

Hang out with Gove,
and his ‘Game of Thrones’,
there’s much to watch
on mobile phones:

Posh-born, benching,
for many years more,
smiling, sucking,
on us, the new poor.

The Future, A Sick Note

Education privatised,
for the good of the rich,
a decade on,
no state’ll exist:

The outsourced partners,
former Tory grandees,
now academy owners,
providing ‘reasonable fees’.

The ‘three R’s’ re-branded:
Rape, Rob, and Rent:
our futures are sold,
whilst the present is bent.

Smog

Have you breathed in today the low smog of lies,
hung above, blinding, The Sun-darkened isles?

We won’t whine ’bout foul weather fogging us in,
we maintain small insights with screen-swiping.

Tablet-tat is uploaded, and each hour we surf,
bad news is aborted for a fresh royal birth:

Young doctors, low-paid, the left, the long-ill,
re-treated by the barons with lethal press pills.

The Trade Union Bill has been finally read,
our forebear’s blood-ceded, will no more be bled.

We’ll give up clear skies, embrace fogged land-fall,
So now lifting our eyes we will seeing nothing at all.

Minor Injuries

Home, to a greeting child, wrist-wrapped, dog-bit:
Then travel (fast) to an M.I. unit.
The waiting room, a car-crash, filled stiff chairs,
In charge: the triage nurse’s contused stares.

I fill out, biro, an NHS form:
Photocopied boxes ticked, facts informed.
Overhead, thirty inches of TV :
Patients dosed-down with free reality:

‘Loose Women’ (giggling about men in sheds),
Here the nursing staff avoid blocking beds.
My child is soon repaired, by a gowned saint,
The punctures cleaned, with dabbed iodine paint.

Heading back home, child slung and bandaged-tight,
Proud of our small country doing us right:
Him: ‘In America that’ve cost lots!’,
Me: ‘In the UK it’ll soon be lost’.

Hard Working

“Hard-working people”,
If uttered once more,
By any MP,
Turning facts athwart,

Will ‘raise my hackles’
And ‘Jangle my nerves’:
This new cliche age,
Is what we deserve?

Our sober-worked state,
Knocked back by right-drunk,
“Hard-working people”,
Are left to be sunk.