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
