May’s Britain

In this hushed-up country
of scandalous lies
where powerful classes
ensure their future is fine

we fall asleep in ignorance
and wake to right wing views

we lie to our scared children
that school will solve it all

we saunter down the aisle
in the Church of Endless Shops

we repeat our marriage vows
to those retail uber gods

we book our family holiday
to escape this treadmill life

we load the long-leased burden
and pray there’ll be wifi

In this hushed-up country
we are down on our knees
Here powerful classes
steal whatever they please

#CPC17

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Tossers, tossers,
tossers in suits,
groomed to an inch
of their Tory blue roots.

A lanyard, a sneer,
to let them in,
so the conference starts
and cock-sucking begins:

Motions are raised
in the near-empty hall,
as the screens are filled
by the faces of fools.

They bay for Boris,
pray to lose May,
pull knives out for Gove,
but no big beasts today.

They’ll ship in the blue rinses
on a new battle bus
this one will read:
‘You plebs are now fucked’.


[Poem 865]

Of this Island

We were bound, secure,
tied to that wooden mast,
one made of good timber

imported from foreign states
across the Baltic Sea,

but then shipwrecked by others,
those more cunning sailors,
singers of the siren song,

those who pulled at the wheel
steering us towards hate
and lamentations,

those beef-witted blue jackets
who, even now, fly lies
like flags, their uniform message:

You are running into danger,
that refrain as they take
us to our dishonourable exile.

Trust Nobody

All politicians are liars,
the priests are hypocrites,
those estate agents sell boxes
to meet their sales targets.

Some doctors can’t be trusted,
as your dentist drills for gold,
the copper’s lot is valuable,
cells ready to be sold.

Kick the state-aid scroungers,
the devious thieves of pounds,
rip those leeches from the books
and claim the moral ground.

Austerity and denial
are the liars’ superior sneer,
as our kids fare worse than us
with their future full of fear.

Take on the Tory values
of reduction and rebuke,
give those holders of our fate
a grip they’ll not reduce:

And in a year we will hear
the sound of ten years gone,
the birthing screams of Austerity
will be the loudest ones.

As our kids reboot this island,
set adrift by Brexiteers,
they may ask of us, the voters,
how did it come to this?

The Hunt

Hunt down the ragged fox,
reduce our long-earned rights,
set dogs upon the immigrants,
claimants should be denied‘:

Praise The Mail’s honesty,
share their Photoshop of lies,
become a born-again Christian,
to fight off Islamic cries.

Bitch about striking workers,
and ‘those sponging socialists‘,
stand up for the landed wankers
whose shined brogues you long to kiss:

Now you are a Conservative,
voting for returning to the past,
you will fight them on the beaches
once our borders return to France.

And as your vast shares in disaster
push tides and break up skies,
your pension fund will collapse,
and your children will ask you: ‘Why?’