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


Smoke Over Paris

Their Lady of Paris burnt
in one online afternoon
Her re-imagined spire
tipped to robes of smoke

like a bloodied lance
in surrender – once more –
to politics and holy battles
in a kindless fog of war

Her heated metals ran
as dark beaded sweats
from her swealing heights
to leave cooled scabs

of Saint Thomas – and others –
spattered across worn stones
under her collapsed transept
Those slabs will be saved

with high relics – rescued
from clouds above la quatrième
No puzzle of scattered ashes –
France has her couronne d’épines

The Scent of People

Larner feared removal
of the scent of people
in crowded wiki articles

Dumb grazing animals
hardly move from hoof to hoof
with their heads down

At this bar
three men sit
before chemical beer
misdirected and under-lit

Tommy Robinson spits
as poor aims are raised
by squaddies at politicians

and three men take turns
to buy another Peroni
without exchanging words

We know everything
by what we read and watch
whilst bent to scent-free pastures

Of the Future

They took a hammer to Marx
It’s just another monument
nothing to get excited about
unlike that time Churchill’s
striding high cast of bronze
was fitted a turf wig which
sullied a great Englishman
who meant so very much
to those of lost empires
Do not mention his passing
resemblance to Mussolini
Two men of equal significance
but one man left disfigured
by cowards’ repeated strikes
by tool and boot upon his face

Henley Homes in Lambeth

It has now come to pass
children are set aside
before profitable hedges
to maintain London prices
over fixed social housing –
though their adverts stated –
common areas are there
for the use of all.. residents
This split capital sets
poor doors as markers
to keep rare palaces high
and beyond the reach
of most average born kids

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


#BBCQT

I turned off the BBC’s
weekly Question Time
it’s now a B-movie
played out by UKIP-types –

Bland egos screen-act
mincing up for clap-baits
from the baying audience –
all cheered up by hate

as a host steers the fears
from lost hope to idiots –
this is Jeremy Kyle
with professional gits –

But late-at-night viewers
under booze can’t deny
the glaring screen truth –
the Beeb also lies


 

Those Other English

There is a malaise among those English
set sore by a too-shared saint and crosses –
spoken of in footballers’ reedy voices
at post-match interviews – post more losses –

Now Being English is not quite enough
for Pimms-pourers and pub-crawling bigots –
Cuckolded Englanders distrust each and all –
those past Offa’s Dyke and Hadrian’s Wall –

those who speak of The European Project
that obvious brain child of English logic –
Those truest English of English hate again –
they hate all foreigners – that’s how it begins


Australia

Between Townsville and Tasmania
there is every conceivable season
now that the rules have been lost –

my route north thirty years before
faced airline upset – home to roost
and other such haggard platitudes

sit at the brink of my old thoughts –
a recall of North Shore, Sydney where
I wrote my first unfinished novel –

the green opulence under verandahs –
but still a whiff of being at the edge –
But not until Cairns did I finally trip

 

Fresh Denials

Today one-in-twenty
British people
hold a shared belief
for that should they be

summarily rounded up –
after a few years
of harassment
and segregation

and then be consigned
into cattle trucks
and carried across
their homeland counties

to a place of final shoves –
of dogs and guns
and hard fists and shouts
and a sick unease

where interwoven fingers
will be broken
as families and lovers
are unloaded

and that is before
they find the hard slats
to sit upon
where others sat in disbelief?

Ratfucker

It’s better to be infamous
than never famous at all –
said the scuttling Ratfucker

Even with muscle memories
of weighty court bracelets
fresh in The Rodent’s mind

he still stood before a God –
one he did not get elected –
unlike the ferret on his back —

he won’t pay for its removal –
of Nixon – Stone now itches less
than the lustrous towering fool

whom he – Rat Man – won’t rat upon –
the sunburned – set-up – tycoon –
the fall guy wanting Moscow rooms

Not Right

You lymphatic racists rupture
bursting forth a noxious poison
as you brandish your creased flags –

whilst you unfurl your ragged stupidity –
you slurred men – you such ungifted pigs –
you too-loud opinion-screamers

Reduce the yellow-vested sectarians –
and throw back their shite –
by pointing out politely that they are not right


E080119

The Captured

Her story will be lost
by this time tomorrow –
Jakelin Ameí
Rosmery Caal Maquin –
even one so sweet –
many names for one
so small

And no memorial –
except a wall –
will ever be raised
by any state
to the first life lost
in Trump’s own war

A child – just seven –
in his custody – gone –
whilst his ugly patrols
pour water and scorn –
their cruel acts posted –
‘phone-boasted captures

Prompt Notes

Lugenpresse – the cry
of the untruth brigade –
in the theatres of hate –
of cheap bit players –
they bay in loud heckles
and kick at the presses –
they stick it to foreigners
and Islam – like zealots –
they spray the synagogues
with graffiti and guns –
they are The Minority
but represent everyone –
they find no favours
from CNN –
they shout loudly on Fox
about everything –
The lying press – their cry –
as they confuse the news –
spewing up rhetoric
as they twist their false truth

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

Gravesend

The singing whale
sang canary song
swimming upstream
in the river of kings

Almost a portent –
a white flag of truce –
dipping and guiding
her head by the moon

There will be a dinghy
to greet the creature –
to check her origins
and to refuse a visa

We know too well
that her journey will fail –
in that dead end course
taken by other whales

Blow Winds

Ms. Stormy Daniels
you’ve raised a tempest –
not quite Shakespearian
but that of a temptress

A swellhead scorned
is a dangerous thing –
but once he’s made POTUS
he’ll act like a king

Rumble thy bellyful!
Spit, fire! Spout, rain!
Much like Shakespeare
he’ll end with exclaims

Poor naked wretches
whereso’er you are
That bide the pelting
of this pitiless storm

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

Ripped

I read of the theft
of a golden reliquary
which held the dead heart
of Anne of Brittany

They stole the Queen’s case
from the Dobrée museum
The bold theft of this viscus
raised local opprobrium

The measure of its value
isn’t in its gold plate

Now they ask of the Knave
to bring it back complete

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2018/04/15/queens-heart-gold-stolen-french-museum/amp/

#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]

Endavant

The same streets which I once took
with Kodachrome and pesetas
are now stolen by cruise line tourists
in digital edits of Catalan fist-fights,
of baton-crash-policing:
Here Spaniard cracks Spaniard
outside padlocked primary schools,
as Generation X rights are suspended,
here blood is the paper’s crossed mark.


[Poem 864]

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?’

Rising

Google is Evil,
along with Facebook,
Instagram will f*ck you,
and Twitter will look:
The next revolution
will burn in the States,
where the off-lines will rise
against those engaged:
Removed from utility,
sidelined, betrayed,
armed against violence,
their violence they’ll raise.

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.

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]

This Sunday

Call out for the dead, mark the London doors,
a plague on our house which the politic adore.

There is no cure, no treatment, but Gods,
their calls for death, Grails and Jihads.

Our children see men doing harm unto others,
our children are assured that God is among us.

This waking Sunday, more holy work,
tell me of a sermon using honest words.

Kabul, 90

This week in Kabul
the angel of death
rolled through the city
to cause distress,

to dig a space
blown by one man’s fuse,
on bloodied streets,
to pay God his dues:

This could be you,
in country or town,
this could be us
laid flat by God’s bomb.

But also consider
why we are targeted,
why we cower,
now fear-addicted.

0.3c 2100

It’s the laziest retreat in US history,
that of the bought into a sold misery,
to remove from accord with everything to lose,
an old battle plan of an oiled-up whore:

Sat at his desk, fingering fat contracts,
letting frackers suck dry our one planet,
because the POTUS doesn’t give a jack,
he’ll f*ck us all with this one man act.

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.

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.

Who the F*ck is Nick Timothy?

Who is Nick Timothy?
Do you give a toss?
He’s the quiet one –
St Theresa’s soft voice.

Almost Deputy PM,
with no vote or mandate,
he’ll re-draw Conservatism,
tracing over the Left;

aided by Fiona,
the Queen of Press Passes,
but Nick wears the boots,
‘cos he likes to kick arses.

[Published here on The Dangerous Globe]

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

Kathy

For Kathy.

Kathy spoke for a minute,
it may have been less:
“I’m being serious,
I want you to do

something for us.”

[The most powerful woman, in this reduced state,
rep(lied) through her teeth – not one of them straight.]

I vote for Kathy,
I vote for the traduced.
We’ll remove the ‘Fat Cats’ –
make sure your vote is used.


Original NEWS story here

Amended to ‘Kathy’ 17.05.17 – updated NEWS story here

Cross

I will now deny the rich
their pleasured agenda
by switching off the media

by restoring my memories,
to recall how secure
our future once felt

I make these my choices –

I will stand up for the NHS,
I will support state education,
I will seek dignity for the elderly,
I will not let sickness profit,
and I will respect those with less
because I will never be
the one percent, not us,
the freelancers,
the fireman,
the coppers,
the nurses,
the teachers,
the shop-keepers,
the factory
and the office workers
we,
the unelected,
the kept-at-bay,
the once state-maintained,
the f*cking Hard Working
tax payers

will be screwed, lustrum-long,
by policies born of private pickings,
whelped by Bullingdon boys

and when I wake to them, again,
wearing sneers they call smiles,
with drubbings for the losers,

I’ll know that my cross was counted,
piled, not as high as the winner’s cards,
but, briefly, in that mark, my minority won.

Stephen Fry on Entering Heaven

“How dare you create a world
in which there is such misery..”

Fry cast out the kids’ cancer gifts –
sent forth by the tri-ghost ministry:

“Why should I respect a capricious,
mean-minded.. god?”

Thus he spake on R.T.E.,
tipping an Overman nod.

“The god who created this universe..
is.. clearly a maniac..”

No Stephen Fry tweet,
but a character attack.

“We have to spend our lives
on our knees thanking him.”

And the Gardai burnt time
on Stephen Fry’s meme.

[Original story here ]

Radiohead

You tinsel town criers,
signatory luvvies,
calling for the blood
of a band of brothers,

crying out ‘gainst doing
Tel Aviv this time,
because the Israelis
have fucked Palestine.

“Make the contract in dollars
give me everything I need,
fuck the Palestinians,
this gig’s all about me.”

You actors, singers,
and cultured orifices,
would never pander
to such states of attrocities,

you’ll boycott those countries,
you high-and-erudite,
except the fat miscreant,
the U.S of Apartheid.

“Make the contract in dollars,
give me everything I need,
fuck the tribal nations,
this tour’s just about greed.”

You shouters took America
many years ago,
touring that glasshouse,
throwing no stones,

turning your back on
the fucked Indian tribes,
making no fuss
about that genocide.

“Make the letter in italics,
and sign it as one,
let’s lash another artist
with our long luvvy tongue.”

Election-careering

That pond of politics,
where amphibians crawl,
over arched backs
to gorge in the pool,

feeding, growing,
on the bottom-fat crud,
to rise from the Commons,
to ascend as a Lord.

To claim an allowance,
deigned for the rich,
to age into bitterness,
in the House of Old Gits.

To be buried in a churchyard,
“not some Commoner’s grave”,
to die as Lord Muck,
not labelled a knave.


 

Cuts

We re-loaded
the dishwashers,
as they re-loaded
the bombs,

outside
our smart homes
a covert snipping
began:

at first the truth
was subtly distorted,
and then the news
was misreported.

Coding was clipped,
hyper-links snapped,
Facebook re-liked
the on-line crap.

Let them use bombs,
sub-nuclear,
to help shift the focus
to a new fear:

Hear the bray of pigs,
this West’s old cry,
under the dropping
of lies from our sky,

then cut dictators
from negotiations,
severe all talks,
open the heavens,

let the sky weep,
flatten the earth,
another fresh harvest
of slash and burn.


 

All Fools

Awake, readied, for April Fools’ Day,
one of misplaced apostrophe’s.

This All Fools’ Day suits this country,
this island of embarrassing Brexit,

this rained empire of excruciating Boris,
this idiot-breeding farm of Not-Sir Farage.

And this day suits me, an equal to all fools,
a composer of irregular rhymed diatribes,

a digger of holes, still in further education,
Head Boy at the School of Schoolboy Errors.

Mutants

Princess Anne loves genetic crops,
she’s inbred-proof it really works,
there’s other experiments in mutation
displaying success beyond expectation:

Trump and Putin re-mixed the truth,
and now the States is democratic proof
that all it takes is a misogynist’s grab
to be Putin’s pussy; sat there on his lap.

This isle, set adrift by Farage’s caper,
limp as cold chips wrapped in newspaper,
is turning into another Gulliver’s find,
becoming a nation of the very small kind.

As toxic shocks of religion have shown
mix god with politics and here Hell will grow,
add in racism, bestow false hopes,
and the future becomes a right royal joke.

Numbered

He was born too late for ’21,
by ’68 he burnt with the charge:

Delivered 1950 in Bogside,
(part-named after Pope Pius XII),

the second of seven of Derry,
by fifteen years old a butcher.

Then to other blood at eighteen,
(after Fitt was struck in ’68),

and just one year later he was
Derry’s second-in-command:

A man at twenty-one counting
the dead after a bloody seventh day.

Politics’ cloak worn in the early 70’s,
but Mountbatten died on Shadow V:

Your man was the IRA’s number one,
that day when eighteen sons died.

By ’93 he was welcomed in London,
seeking peace within Number 10.

He lived 3,500 weeks, two sides,
and over that time 3,500 died.


 

Derek Walcott, 1930-2017

‘Rhyme remains the parenthesis of palms,’
possibly misquoted, by myself, not the man,
that islander, playwright, poet, and giant,
gifted in language: ‘one of the chosen.’

Born under flesh-stained colonial rule,
he ran fast ‘cross the pink law of the Empire’s tongue:
stood huge on a platform, with Seamus and verse,
to see off the trains commuting their words.

It was the tidal returns, the moon’s low fold,
which refilled the pen he always held:
that implement, squat, was his quick mouthpiece,
the wordy, Saint Lucian, commander of language.

Along Brodsky, and Heaney, he will loudly reverb,
as his silent waves rise on sand-scribed words:
and the triumvirate will laugh at their own bawdy jokes,
in their office of tongues those three foreigners spoke.


 

The Flood

Evangelina Chamorro Díaz
climbed, primal, from the flood,
risen from muckled timbers,
smothered in Creation’s mud.

Heavy oxen struggled for land,
as Jesus Hidalgo filmed the girl,
some held out calloused hands
to return her to this world.

The deluge, instructed by God,
heaven-sent to test belief –
the sunken cattle didn’t know,
because God is a lying thief.

Evangelina Chamorro Díaz,
on slowed limbs from that slime,
an ascent of natural selection,
proving God isn’t on our side.


Story here.
Video here

Ozymandias

Lifted from water, brown as the Nile’s,
he was found under Cairo’s dust-slums,
in a bare-foot place of disrepair,

(another ruin to make Shelley smile),
given up, again, to the constant sun,
him, the lost King, Ozymandias.

uncovered, “boundless and bare” –
from under the city’s ruined piles,
in a three-tonne bucket, he becomes

the brief provider of a foul rain,
as the mud, which was newly carved,
slipped back to the dragged-at hole

from which he, the busted Ramses,
was shifted, ignobly pulled.


News Story Here

The Son of the Wind

John Surtees, CBE 1934 – 2017

‘Figlio del vento’
this knight was called
by the motoring fraternity
from which he won all,
but he was never bestowed
a higher ranked honour,
that master, that maven,
the lord of horse power:
Championship titles
were his laurel-rewards,
perhaps no need
for the touch of her sword.

Donations to: Henry Surtees Foundation

Claudio, No! by Gary W. Lineker

You came to Leicester,
a silver fox to our pack,
the grey Tinker Man,
whom we’ve now sacked:

Claudio! Claudio!
You got me to strip
down to my shorts
– my crispiest bits.

To get me there
you proved me wrong,
you took my team,
at five thousand to one,

up to the top
of the Premiership,
but then you got dumped
for tinkering with it.

Alas you are gone,
no more punditry pokes,
I’ll live with the title,
and ignore Shearer’s jokes.

My pants are pressed,
my abs are tight,
I am now ready for
the relegation fight.

#CartepostaleàBannon

Cher Steve Bannon,

Comment redémarrer le mal?
Vous l’avez trop facile
mon altesse-droite,

vous avez votre chemin,
avec la haine, votre haine,
votre politique de quatre lettres:

Tenez leurs têtes courbées,
prendre leurs cœurs sombres,
et ensuite nourrir, si longtemps,

sur leurs intestins bouillonnés,
assaisonné de toss-politique,
raisonnement c’est tout pour eux.

Là, mon cruel ami,
est votre projet déplié
à construire avec l’iniquité.

Cordialement,

Mike Bell.


#postcardstoBannon

steve-bannon1Dear Steve Bannon,

How to re-heat evil?
You have it too easy
my Alt-right friend,

you have your way,
with hate, your hate,
your four-letter policy:

Hold their bowed heads,
bake their dark hearts,
and then drizzle piss

on their bile-boiled guts,
seasoned with toss-politics,
reasoning it is all for them.

There, my cruel friend,
is your simple recipe
to cook with iniquity.

Regards,

Mike Bell.

Aside

It exists today, another foul descent,
where thousands of sickening acts are set:
Saydnaya – Assad’s concrete playhouse,
a lowly spectacle, directed from Damascus,
those dark rehearsal rooms set for Death.

He stands blindfolded, a metre above,
as if waiting on the missing prompt,
knowing this, now, is his unseen drop:
He prays too fast his final lines,
having suffered others’ rehearsal cries.

In the stinking cells, dragging overhead,
there is still no sign of anyone’s God,
instead an ark of the beaten remains,
humans left alive to endure the pain,
hourly woken by screams from this show,
which plays out each night on the floor below.

A last dance of kicks in strangulation:
The skinny ones flailing fast, hung prostrations.
Then, under direction, their legs are grabbed,
and with that embrace their final breath.

And we will watch, the show is streaming,
the dig and lift of Saydnaya’s murdered,
from under loose mounds in that desert:
Syria’s long dead then all laid head-to-toe
in the rewrite of Evil’s latest show.


The Coming

We must build dikes of courage
to hold back the flood of fear

Martin Luther King, Jr.

I no longer understand this aberrant world –
I am standing – ill – aged and weeping in confusion

Please – for me – explain
without repeated cliches
then I might hear you
and avoid a crossing

On this side of the brook I did not drink the dark rum –
the fresh blood in the water – the slaughterhouse run-off

That upstream slew was held
in the foul storm
by time’s broken trees –
dipped raw dams

But nature’s stoppages are made to give up
and her stick-jammed wall broke under the rising

‘This isn’t forever,’
I shouted to you
as blood clogged the current
and the gully turned red

When all that floats are the clots of dead men
then we will have gorged on the last of the world

Morte a Venezia

A driven route
without tarmac,
re-laid by each
warming tide
through that
visited stilt-city
of floods marks
and high arts,
where a man
can drown,
whilst thrown
racist weights
and life aids:
“He is stupid,”
as recorded.
“He wants to die,”
they cried.
Pateh Sabally,
not a Venetian,
was left to drown.

The Doppelgänger

St Theresa sat
on Trump’s stiff knee,
to him she was
a limey Queen,
but in her head she’s
Thatcher’s clone:
‘This dame’s my idea
of a woman I’d bone!’
Perhaps the future’s
perfect couple,
they both agree
to cause less trouble.
Hand-in-hand,
off they go,
but he’ll dump her soon
in Guantanamo.

Putin’s Law


Multiply subordinates,
not your rivals,
as Parkinson’s Law
stands, as it applies:
Nothing to do with
shuddered disease,
more about huge
bureaucracies:
A law equally applied
to the world’s leaders,
with their hidden desire
for sinister pleasures.
Putin has studied
this arcane resolve,
he’s running America
through Trump’s arsehole.


 

Philipshame


Mr. Philip Davies,
Shipley’s own MP,
always votes to deny
womens’ equality:
There are many concerns
on his To Do List
(his Ladbrokes punts
are a bit hit-and-miss*).
Now sat on a committee,
one which he detests,
I’ll wager he’ll reduce
its odds of success:
He won’t help Parliament
smash any glass,
instead he’ll get
the ceilings reinforced.


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.


An Apology


Aleppo, this day, will be
our unspoken apology
to those children gassed,
shelled – small witnesses
to our huge mistakes,
bearers of the fall-out,
each one reduced under
our ancient-held belief
of war within the cradle
of their civilization:
Our solution for peace
is to stand-aside,
until one side has won.


 

Retirement Plans for Nigel


Oh @Nigel_Farage
you are such an elf,
a giver of presence,
but only yourself;
a true little helper
to Euro-wide gifts,
what will you do
when no grants exist?
Off to blow Trump
-with other white men?
KKK calls,
a new outfit then?
When you’ve got a medal
off Donald-the-Trump,
(for services to freedom,
and great sucking up),
will you retire
from your very public life,
with your chain-smoked-fags
and warm British pints?
Hang the Barbour up,
next to a migrant,
make your German wife
re-do your ironing:
sharp creases down
your best baggy cords,
and a lovely trip to Spain
with your Tesco Rewards?


 

Margaret in Leather


She wears leather flares,
and fashionable loafers,
St Theresa of the nation
reclines on her sofa:
She’ll stretch for the Saudis,
the ones who arm-deal,
she ensures they crave missiles,
she sells righteous thrills.
Sniff her crossed thighs,
calf-sweated, hide-moist;
she has Thatcher’s eyes,
she has Margaret’s voice.
St Theresa will command
her ministerial messrs,
they’ll bow to her cries,
‘cos she wears the trousers.