As if crashed in the mist
of nebulous complaints –
far-too easily caught –
to vibrate like an angry fly
in a web – not breaking –
until worn to a submissive
woven bundle – set aside –
and that woman in grey –
in her binding cocoon –
in it they will then spin her
into repeated crises –
no one will cut her loose

Just bought a coffee off a #Brexit git

one of the Tories who doesn’t give a shit

‘If Corbyn wins it is ’72 again!‘

Alas by 2019 nowt ‘ll #Remain

The more we say
the less we do,
we read the news,
reading nothing new.
We type out love,
but feel no lust,
we trip in potholes
on the paths of dust.
We stand in the sea
as the waves repeat,
and look at the sky
under which we weep.

God is on
St Theresa’s side,
He guides her through
Brexitcide.
Her Superior Being
will not falter:
Spain will never get
Gibraltar.

No kisses for St Theresa!
No Euro hugs for her!
This is us – Brexit Britain,
soon to be shown the Tür

Rewind your clock
an hour tonight,
we re-wound our state
back on Brexit night,
we re-took our borders,
a ‘Foutre’ to the French,
the Great British Fuck Off,
that was never meant.

#ClocksGoBack

Henry the Hoover
was never ‘for’ Brexit,
he liked to keep it simple,
being a hard-working Brit,

Unlike Dick the Dyson,
with his uber-brand name,
who was blowing off Europe,
because it sucks to Remain.

…here.

My last poem
about David Cameron:
Sadly, ‘Pooh’ will never
come back again:

Off to ponder,
‘tiddle-tut-tut’,
To wander the forests,
with his wife – Piglet;

Along the sandy paths
of the Algarve,
To plan their future –
not too hard,

Because, thinking a lot
taxes Pooh,
Unlike the Revenue,
who will still tax you;

So wave ‘bye-‘bye
to the short-shirted bear,
he left us in sh*t
piled up to.. [Go to first line]

A programme of contrails for Eastbourne,
held over, circled, then the low-flown
aircraft burst through the scuttled wisps of nimbus.

Above the beach of shingle – levelled by pop-up chairs,
and picnic squares, of towels and blankets
(for dads’ brief nap) –

the crowds watch, stiff-necked
by aircraft performing overhead,
deafened by the scream of a Eurofighter.

Mutterings in the afternoon bar
slightly sour the mood,
thick racism in those heat-slowed voices,

and they would rather have Spitfires,
than any recently banked, now gone,
European accord.

We pulled up before
the Brexiters’ gates –
raised higher by
a new bit of fence:

Seeing this barrier,
smiling, she said,
That’ll not halt
the immigrants..

Instead, it transpired,
the fence was raised,
to cage their dog,
not exclude a race.

[Thank you Bella May for the quote]

So unexpected,
a country band in Bari,
our spaghetti western,
almost a calamity,
but saved by such laughter,
and deprecation,
and we danced, remaining,
our explanation.

I’m starting
a political party,

for all those remaining
disheartened:

The cheated, the old,
the poor and the sick,

all who can’t afford
an autarky.

Cameron Bear
hummed a light tune,
the last line:
“Hurrah, it’s now through:”

There in Number 10
Piglet he hugged,
(His wife’s inheritance,
[thinks] more than enough!)

“Blue shirts ironed!
I’ve booked flights today!
I’ll Leave Brexit-lump
to the bitch T. May!”

“Let’s give our NHS the £350 million 
the EU takes every week”,
wrote Matthew Elliott,
Chief Executive of Vote Leave,
in his, now removed, tweet.

I am also self-censored,
asked to stop sending
our Brexit-relatives
the bare-bone facts

whilst all the time,
before the vote,
their righteous voices
were quick to scream:

“You can’t persuade me
to change my mind!”
But I never did try:
I couldn’t disprove lies,

until now, and then,
it’s uncomfortable for them,
having broken the future
for our children.

He piled ‘powder high,
a daily malarkey,
cheered on by you,
the blood-baying gallery.

He ran from the plan,
belief of a remain,
trying to avoid
a Greek tragedy
again.

“We will not go
quietly into the night

“We will not vanish
without a fight

“We’re going to live on
We’re going to survive

“Today, we question
their ignorant lies!

[ apologies to @rolandemmerich ]

For Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson

Those jokes he makes:
no lattes today

no more croissants
useless Greeks

Under the right’s
now-pyrrhic victory

the one he wishes
they had lost

which has given him
everything desired

a stab at leadership
before the result.

Stop all the clicks, cut off the internet,
Prevent the right from barking on your feed,
Silence the news and wireless hum
Brexit announced, let the mourners come.

Let Osborne circle, tweeting overhead
Posting the message Cameron Is Dead,
Put hands round the necks of Remaining love
Let the riot police wear black cotton gloves. 

Europe was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought Europe would last: I was wrong.

Union stars are not wanted now: delete our one;
Pack up the trade and dismantle the fun
Pour away the wine and mop up the blood
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

[Apologies to WH Auden]

I wake again
a shrinking isle

sunken under
right-wing lies

‘Independence Day’
is not my choice

our country screwed
Farage’s farce

put the lights out
I’ll not return

what tossers joked
is now incurred.

The long-term forecast,
Graphics on-screen,
Low over Britain,
Sweep of right-blown freeze:

Extreme off America,
Frosting our bias,
The return of the Pilgrims,
Re-routed on wireless.

Accents trailed West,
We say we are ‘liked’,
‘Literally’ rained-down,
From You Tube’s fat pipe.

Our children consume,
Screen-feeding frenzy,
Imagery of bigotry,
Old-age the young’s enemy.

Britain lays broken,
Scots cast afloat;
The forecast is grim,
However we vote.

IDS ‘fell’
On his blunt sword;
The first exit:
Brexit applauds:

You cannot vote
Austerity,
Then claim to
Work effectively.

Seamus and Stefan,
Britons braced to run,
10k for me,
and Parkinson’s:

A lesson in Brexit’s
failed embrace:
Brits are found
in more than one race.

Seamus Murphy & Stefan Aleksandrowicz are #fundraising for @cureparkinsonsT.
Donate to Seamus Murphy &’s @JustGiving page 

Boris exists
as far as the south;
His voice is old-posh,
ruling real work out.

Bumbling, Chuchillian,
or chilling-distract,
his politics opportunistic,
headlined-crap:

Seeking the leadership,
of a euro-kicked dog,
the raisin d’etre
of Johnson’s fog.

He will sit ready
to lead vacuum-bores;
No longer a mayor
or bankers’ whore.

Let go of London,
Boris will bike,
the Right will whinny,
Lifting Tory-knives.

Fat expats recline
on Spain’s sunny coast,
oiled up on olives,
pre-paid for Dignitas:

White-carcass, Lycra-clad,
shell suits half-zipped,
these aren’t the Brits
who will force ‘Brexit’:

They never left Blighty,
EC rules on Spain’s shores,
with their exported, off-shored,
Brit-branded flaws:

Marmited, chipped,
fatty food glad,
their life sun-stroked,
now a leathery blag,

every beached gran,
toasting to a darkened hide,
soon to be repatriated,
in Brexit’s genocide.

We sip tea on Sunday,
Checking house prices,
Whilst off-shore
There is
A washed-up crisis.

As values grow,
In the buy-to-let game,
Thousands of people
Are homeless, again:

This coast has become
A cemetery of souls.
Papers quote the mayor,
As the Lesbos bell tolls.

So we won’t buy
In Europe, after all,
Holiday homes being
The first to fall.

Let us sip tea,
As the East meets the West,
And our cheap values,
Never repossessed.