On (Goat) Skin

No more ‘Great’ pre-fixed
to the Repeal Bill,
no more ‘Great’ in Britain,
it is the richest who will
command this state
as it recoils, reduces,
and they’ll pinch all that’s great,
leaving austerity bruises.

Solstice, Uncelebrated.

Today the sun tipped-up
at four forty-three,
kicking cats and dogs:
it then will scathe across
the sky for sixteen hours
and thirty-eight minutes
(plus eighteen seconds),
which will be the longest day
over a liquiescent London,
before dropping out
twenty-one minutes
after nine: hated.


Hate drove a van
at people again,
hate is alive in
ignorant men,
hate is spewed
at dinner tables,
hate is consumed
in social ensembles,
hate is served up,
a spat out mantra,
because hate
needs hate,
a hateful dogma.

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.

Two-shot Tories

A table of old Tories
in the Kemptown cafe
plotting the downfall
of your future today:

Grumbling ’bout democracy,
and ‘leftie threats’,
whilst wanking their pensions
on skinny lattes:

The last generation
to enjoy a grand old age,
they’ll spoon all the sugar
and ensure nothing remains.


Normal service 
has been resumed
today the Beeb
does ‘other news’,
for this short time
they cannot bitch,
no Tory scorn
on Corbyn’s pitch;
Laura is muted
for a whole day,
but Kuenssberg readies
her hateful ways.

Echo Chambers

It is too easy to hate,
to speak in screams,
to find all solutions
in final extremes;
the volume racked up
in your echo chamber,
knowing your hatred
reverberates longer.
Too many such rooms,
with men pushing in,
these are the places
where the end begins.

[Published here on The Dangerous Globe]