10,000 POEMS – Posted freshly most days
We sit immune
to 20,000 dead
it would seem –
20,000 less & no
regrets/ We can
be led off a cliff
[science says] –
new routes via
guidance given
& follow advice
& clean [twice]
both hands with
puffs & flourish
[with picks from
God Save HMQ
or Fuck U Boris]
Now fewer [less] unstructured
conversations – with fortuitous
visitors/ A spin-bawled belamy
of gagging orders & infections
Desires have fallen away [as if
his blood doesn’t crave a love]
& his hammock is still without
pushes/ His spine curves with
his hanging bend of canvas &
ropes – sunburn is a flush [kiss
of death] set to rules [lies?] by
missing ministers [a disorder –
difficulty with truth]/ Common
colds [odd at this time of year]
will catch out travelled fools &
[unforeseen] anxieties of dying
will steer bald plots to Durham
& back to other low strategies –
an actual plan to sell-off gems
& other erst national treasures
Dominic sat at a [pathetic] table
& cut a disposition [not a rose] –
as his script [of facts] scattered
to breezed sighs [by dismissals
of media complaints] – a re-spin
& no apology given/ One Nation
in lock-down is his one-line joke
on us blind-sided [stupid] voters
as curtains twitch [comparable
breezes locate a sash window –
held open by counter-weights] –
a flitted gust [in #10]/ A TV sits
alive to Sky News – a baby cries
next door & Boris yawns with a
tiredness – it wasn’t meant to be
this bloody difficult [fatherhood]
They’ll re-tie his comfy swinging
bed once those media [we don’t
anoint them as Press any more]
leave – remain – take back .. Zzz
They promoted Captain Tom
[Colonel of Hope] & wheeled
out war tropes whilst setting
fire to a sacrificial scientist –
a hazardous risk when alight
& likely to cause suffering in
wringing hands/ Our PM has
added another kid to his list –
sequestered alongside rabid
Rees-Mogg [who offers zilch
words of comfort to us plebs
of lower class] Save our NHS
is a fight-’em-on-the-beaches
refrain on clappy Thursday
as plans are made to offload
some too-expensive niceties
when war is won [NHS gone]
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
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
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
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
Mail on Sunday tripe
I am backing Theresa May
Let’s get on with the job
Thus tweeted Boris J –
still refusing to admit
he’s keen on Leadership
but this country knows
he was the right arse
to a bum-fumbling Gove
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.
Pooh and Eeyore
were spotted down town
dinner for two,
the c#nt and the clown,
whilst out on the street
their free limos purred,
poisoning the air,
as the pair conversed;
a meeting of minds
in a New York bar,
then back to the day jobs
to cause more harm.
Story HERE
The Turks have bought Illustrious,
Lusty – as known to her crews;
launched by Princess Margaret,
when only warships would do.
The Near East will get to break her,
she’s going to be shaped into tanks,
or cans of low-calorie soda,
produced to sate the fat yanks;
but neither tin will save us,
as our slimmed-down navy sinks,
minimal strength is far healthier,
with reduced-fat defence.
We’ll send them Boris (instead),
barking like a rabid pooch,
he’ll get back our oldest enemies,
every time he opens his mouth.
But St. Theresa’s had enough
of her blonde Secretary’s games,
she’s sending him up to Sleaford,
to fight UKIP’s foreign gains.
No new-built Britannia,
no tax-pirate ship:
A small piece of Britain!
It’ll cost zillions of quids!
A gift for us all!
Worth every penny!
But pounds buy less,
unsure how many:
A floating gin palace?
Build no more yachts,
we’re pre-Brexit sunk,
we have spent the pot;
now England’s stuck
at Scottish loggerheads,
build deathly Successors,
load the warheads,
aim them at Holyrood,
and prepare for launch,
Eton mess made good
by Boris’ first war.
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 