College Green

College Green hadn’t seen
such a circus in such a while –
a scattering of disaster tents –

Those stop-gap structures for
turned-collar journalists
talking to random others –

Those stiff-posed parades
of MPs – grinning between ears
like scavenge-fat hyenas –

Those unyielding politicos
in love with themselves
under the gathering clouds –

Those anchormen and weather girls
passing snide remarks
on muted mics back in the studio –

and voters draped in stars and jacks
shouting at the grey-suited fools
pleading for a voice to end it all

A Small Expense

Another plum-voiced politician gabbled
from behind his port-swilled jowls –
Of course the future is great

He could still taste the foie gras
from last night’s foray into decadence –
he had found a folded receipt in his wallet –

He steadied himself before the interview
as he recalled the look in the eyes of the boy
as he pulled too hard at his limp cock –

after he had spent a few hundred quid
at a discreet little place off Piccadilly
It will be put under ‘entertaining purposes’

No Confidence

The Mother of Parliaments
emits a low groan –
her confidence shot –
as our distrust grows

We smell the foul essence
worn by the rich –
it’s the stench of the moneyed
on the front bench

The PM frowns
as her voice thins and strains –
repeating her mantras –
again and again

The deceits are disclosed
in emotional stories
of neglect and fear
under the Tories

those perfidious parliamentarians
who grip tight to their seats –
those reeky Machiavellians
who trade in deceit


This poem was first published on www.dangerousglobe.com 16-01-19

Social-ism

“It’s .. trying to construct a society around production
for need .. not .. for profit .. meeting people’s needs”
I half-quote Tony Benn

Once I was in his audience whilst back home
my father rebuffed Wedgie-bloody-Benn with
his gruff-spoken shun about the Leftie-in-a-suit
Benn spoke without limits at the Co-operative Hall

way back in the slush-grey twentieth century
of do-not-touch candles and knitted gloves
in an endless civil war of fists and banners
across slag battlefields far removed from us

Face-to-face politic was the free-to-use fuel
against factory shut-downs and mounting job losses
“(Thatcher) did make war on a lot of people in Britain,
and I don’t think it helped our society”

Now we trade insults over sofa-space distances –
such hate we would not dare to excrete out there in public –
no loud enough complaints about neighbours’
ached-stomachs with day-end hunger –

not of zero-hour contracts worth near to nothing –
or the basic provisions of dignity and stability
Instead – we lament the kiss of a celebrity –
caught on camera – going viral like herpes

This land is cut open under smartphone blades –
those knives blunt voices which once were our aides

 

Leaving

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

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

#bbcqt

Hear pile-up politics in a thick lathered buzz –
Question Time’s audience is a scream-streamed TX

Almost over-directed for a hyped-up reception –
Our screens are re-tuned to TV’s deception

Below the radar into our licensed homes –
finding the softest – in our sofa-slumped zones –

Some people will toss their floating votes –
they’ll re-tune held views via the set-top box

to long-lost frequencies of old-school racists –
an angry audience with their for-TV faces

October ’17

A century of remembrance
but slipped over today
nervous shifts of stick into mud
The Right want a return
to Passchendaele’s blood

A late dragonfly buzzed
its barrel-blue hints
manic ahead in the dusk
A stuttering biplane
without one God to ask

I need a bench
as I cannot stand
even on this newly-laid route
Stamped
parade-hard paths
an old man’s bench will do

#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]

Of this Island

We were bound, secure,
tied to that wooden mast,
one made of good timber

imported from foreign states
across the Baltic Sea,

but then shipwrecked by others,
those more cunning sailors,
singers of the siren song,

those who pulled at the wheel
steering us towards hate
and lamentations,

those beef-witted blue jackets
who, even now, fly lies
like flags, their uniform message:

You are running into danger,
that refrain as they take
us to our dishonourable exile.

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?

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

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.

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.


 

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.


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.