Alt-cues

1.
Ill-faced white people settle
and preen in that afterglow
off their stoked shit-storms
as fools refuel on Facebook
2.
Deceivers take to easy airwaves
with urgency and loud spittle
as puppet-fisted politicians
unroll scrolls of lies on cue
3.
Carriers of an alt-right litany
cannot sleep soundly until
their prayers have been spread
For them – fear must be shared
4
We do not mute screaming
hit-buffeted streams
of spitting alt-voices
found by lost innocents
5
Your drawn eyes must rise
from teleprompters that blind
to see over such tilting screens
and to read between their lines

Dead Stars

Let us forget
their faltering war
of shatterings –
of splinterings
of run-from-shops
blown high-to-dust
by others’ drops
of barrel bombs
Let us suckle –
forever blind
Who cares about
such foreign stuff
when we fight
white men seeking
re-election?
Slipped pschents
and insolence –
they are our parade
through Facebook
and shelters under
Twitter storms
I fear death through
water as spelt out
by wicked cards
placed by Madame
Dead stars travel
but will not arrive

Like Greta

Find utter calm before fear
and be too brutally honest
with your known-self – first

Listen to bigoted bar-props
seething with Sussex-hate
about France – French – prices

Only lie to save another’s life
and carry all truth before you –
as a banner of fixed colours

Old men sip their local beer –
despising lives of foreigners –
none will summon them here

Innocence breeds wisdom
whilst that contrary state
feeds on greater ignorance

And then detailed discussions
of travelling – retired – through Europe
They always hate their neighbour

If Greta Thunberg stepped off her bus
and walked through this village of idiots
she would still carry her banner high

These old men of East Sussex mutter –
behind beer head white moustaches –
about another bloody foreigner here

A Taste of Honey

Dear Steven Patrick Morrissey –
mononymously known by your burly surname

I fell in love with you in nineteen eighty-four –
or maybe slightly before – when you sang a lullaby –

Yes – it was just for me – played on an ache-laden
Scouse-spun John Peel Session

You were Alan Bennett – on a sweat-rinsed riser –
taking straight boys with your stirring words

A glimpse of your chest was enough to doubt
girls’ shapely tits had enough to give up

Then you spoke out from your tooth-whitened America
whilst making those Mexican boys doubt

How you turned me off with your racist complaints
My Dear Steven – you no longer interest me


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