A Step-father’s Advice

They will spit forth
foam-flecked hints of hate*
to rattle old angry folk
by distractions – to vote –
it is as if Enoch Powell
were no longer dead –
as high-born cussing –
upper-class meddlers –
play the lack-Latin fools
to the baying stalls
and set off marchers
to resurrect working-class
empirical values
of tipped flat caps
to the lovely guv’nor
whilst we Remain-bowed
middle-classes – struggling
to foot our rising guilt –
doubly weighted by costs
of over-consumption –
turn our attention off
Do not enter politics
without a deep wallet


*I’m no longer Nasty, but please stop lying
about Nice by Boris Johnson’,
Daily Telegraph, 17 October 2002.
Thanks to Fintan O’Toole


Despair

There’s bull in the china shop
and bullshit in the air –
there’s a crash of metaphors
as Britain despairs –

Parliament’s members
throw stones in the house –
whilst Farage smirks broadly
as they bring home his cows –

Johnson – in his jodhpurs –
readies his horse –
the reins will be passed
under Brexit’s hard fall


Quaecunque*

England now seethes
and demands the return
of old ways
in the face of the subtle
invasion
of the German-led nations

England always needs
a threat to Beachy Head
and rationing
to make sense of
itself –
a small state on a shared island

England forever resents
the hot Scottish breaths
and low Welsh
choirs demanding a quick
divorce
from their malignant union

England still breeds
men and women with inked skin
and piercings –
as if such self-immolation
will win
the heart and minds of others

England reclines
in metaphorical Anderson shelters
and pours tea
whilst tuning in to the BBC
World Service –
Nation shall speak peace unto nation

 

*The 1934 motto of the BBC – ‘whatsoever’


 

College Green

College Green hadn’t seen
such a circus in such a while –
a scattering of disaster tents –

Those stop-gap structures for
turned-collar journalists
talking to random others –

Those stiff-posed parades
of MPs – grinning between ears
like scavenge-fat hyenas –

Those unyielding politicos
in love with themselves
under the gathering clouds –

Those anchormen and weather girls
passing snide remarks
on muted mics back in the studio –

and voters draped in stars and jacks
shouting at the grey-suited fools
pleading for a voice to end it all

A Small Expense

Another plum-voiced politician gabbled
from behind his port-swilled jowls –
Of course the future is great

He could still taste the foie gras
from last night’s foray into decadence –
he had found a folded receipt in his wallet –

He steadied himself before the interview
as he recalled the look in the eyes of the boy
as he pulled too hard at his limp cock –

after he had spent a few hundred quid
at a discreet little place off Piccadilly
It will be put under ‘entertaining purposes’

No Confidence

The Mother of Parliaments
emits a low groan –
her confidence shot –
as our distrust grows

We smell the foul essence
worn by the rich –
it’s the stench of the moneyed
on the front bench

The PM frowns
as her voice thins and strains –
repeating her mantras –
again and again

The deceits are disclosed
in emotional stories
of neglect and fear
under the Tories

those perfidious parliamentarians
who grip tight to their seats –
those reeky Machiavellians
who trade in deceit


This poem was first published on www.dangerousglobe.com 16-01-19

#Nebulous

As if crashed in the mist
of nebulous complaints –
far-too easily caught –
to vibrate like an angry fly
in a web – not breaking –
until worn to a submissive
woven bundle – set aside –
and that woman in grey –
in her binding cocoon –
in it they will then spin her
into repeated crises –
no one will cut her loose

Bonfire

We cannot ignore
what we see //
We have to recognise
the slow creep
of ired white men
and equal women
who will re-stoke
their noisome hate
by piling their lies
in ideological pyres//
They will then torch
the shredded truth
lit with cupped
safety matches –
putting a slow flame
to stacked ‘papers –
those dried ink lines
of their justified vice –
set in monotype – far-right
under Jack-high cries//
We cannot be seen
to not see this
and to not raise
a more graceful mob

Dear Nanny

Dear Nanny,

rees mogg dear nannyYou taught me so
very much – like
the fact that the plebs
are far too rough –
‘..Only to be touched
during buggery ..

and then wear a rubber
to avoid disease..’

My dark heart is decorated
like our attic room –
where you taught me love –
Oh! I miss your bosom
Now I have buggered
all of the prols –
with eloquent speeches
off my fountain pen’s furl –
I have time enough left –
and plenty of spunk –
to replenish our love
and become as one

Your loving ‘son’
Jac-Jac x

Leaving

Through me among the people lost for aye –
Dante

We were set upon by the leopard
the lion and the stinking she-wolf –
also known in these parts as Pleasure
Ambition and that foul Avarice –
whilst stiff Reason stood off-stage
with no straight lines or measures –
as our small state folded in on itself –
as our families split because of it –
and now wade through a cesspit
left by the cage-padding haters

The Dealers

Vituperous – you lie –
you low politicians –
with your back-slap careers
and solid state pensions

You’re immune to the illness
as this state becomes
The Sick Man Ex-Europe –
the ailing one

Hide in your shepherd huts –
short the future –
your acts have created
these Alt-Right tumours

You’ll parade through The Lords –
wearing garters and ermine –
having laid out your poison
for us – the sick vermin

British Summer Time

Do not turn back the clocks
unless you have the time
to reset your circadian rhythm
and so to fall into line

The Leavers love the thought
that Europe will end this game –
so that Britain will reverse
to a different time again

Perhaps revisiting 1916
and war-footings everwhere –
The cowards will stay in Britain
because Europe is over there

White feathers for the three –
for Gove – Johnson and Mogg –
may they seek some forgiveness
from the dead who fought for love

And in the spring in England –
as good times rush to leave –
those rotters on the omnibus
won’t stand by lies they weaved

New England

They will soon take command
of the scattered pill boxes –
those red brick squatters
sat above river crossings –

built for strategic purposes –
and to fool the nescient
of a Maginot Line in England –
to withstand our invasion

There will be working parties
to restore the squat outposts –
drinking tea and sipping gin
as the last of Locarno evaporates

The new guard will take to parades
under friendly church hall beams –
taught to guide the landing parties
into concentration camps in Kent –

and you will shift the weight of anger
by reposting others’ indignant shouts
from your padded cell of social media –
which is how all of this begins

Murmur

On the rushed film set
we were re-hushed
for the recording
of a wide shot on B

and we – the extras –
dressed as coppers –
waited in the
bale-tipped barn –

Turning was bellowed
by the unsmiling AD
forcing a quietened
conference of uniforms –

there holding a debate
on colour and race
in hardly whispers
which were kept low –

a murmured conspiracy –
We acted without scripts
and mimed our interactions –
Nothing good was said.

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

#cpc17.png

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?’

U-11 Cricket

Talk of H.M. the Queen
in the cricket pavilion,
of immigration controls
and of ‘darkie millions’,

‘C*nts can’t speak English,
they take our jobs’,
as the under-elevens
are wicket-robbed:

They teach the youth well
to play the bat straight,
to detest Johnny Foreigner,
because ‘whites are great’.

New Broom

She’ll not be swept back
to Downing Street,
her election broom snapped
under the weight;

the Tories will seek
‘a strong and stable’ hand,
to pick up the broom
and lead these lands.

For now she will clean
without the right tools,
whilst Boris and Rudd
agree which of them rules.

The UK untidy,
until the new cleaner sweeps,
austerity to continue
because brooms aren’t cheap.