10,000 POEMS – Posted freshly most days
Elizabeth will be dead
‘fore HS2 opens –
Charles’ll become king
of a state long broken/
Billionaires profit
by Covid-charmed sites
whilst scared kids carry
much sharper knives/
Britain now flounders
as a small island state
shrinking with ignorance
& right-wing hate
Your bed whiffs of miserable sex
[& urine’s drip-drip]/ I’ll shove you
away once your ill Queen is dead/
I am sailing to Sealand where our
border is an irregular confusion –
[there they don’t crave our House
of Windsor – Edward has no work
but earns nicely – lucky him]/ This
country stinks of supremacist talk
from unapologetic men & women/
Superior sneers are easy masks &
filter their words/ Dame V is dead
& white cliffs fall [with our weight
of greed] – bluebirds do not live on
these islands of myths & sung lies
Here is paralysim’s circus show –
of trotting saddle-stiff gits – let’s
sit & peer [but not forget our FB
friends] – here – whipping riders
above us – lofty rein-pullers/ No –
it matters [their tongues strip at-
&-lash as loose as far-right thugs]
Our Elizabeth R rides through her
grounds – us plebs place Her M on
Instagram [#Queen] – Please post
& share HM on your timeline – it is
a recall of an Empire’s crush of life
A pitiful man tips into dead water
but doesn’t drown – iron men will
dross [some ore will bleed to red]
Rubicund stains are inequal over
every cast tyrant/ Please – do not
erect a bronze of her racist Philip
There’s a thuggery
in our cheap blood
[it binds in days of
sluggishness]/ We
clamoured hard in
playground years/
Grown men – beer-
barrel thick – throw
old taunts & inked
fists/ Nazi salutes
poked in Winston’s
shadow show their
hand/ These days –
these days of fear –
are torn [as binary
parts] – barriers set
& hoardings placed
for pathetic battles
[whilst Elizabeth &
Phillip grace a tent
& face toy soldiers]
Your Queen is dead –
Long live your King
until you shove him
on your guillotine’s
carved collar where
he’ll nod off – upon
love’s scythed arm –
it will be his dreamt
moment of demise –
not quite enough to
still torments [but it
was built to behead
without a quagmire
of blood & plaining –
a quite polite death]
Charles coughs into
his plucked ‘kerchief
as his butler exhales
to stall Covid’s creep
Also on Medium
‘Admired for his deathbed performance’
& ‘infamous in his time for his life’ – two
lines of internet biography ensnare his
four decades of crimes / A seventeenth
century existence – before our futilities
bled online [when we danced with men
& vanities & lines of sovereign-sourced
lies] Those immediately-crowned social
influencers – we click on & receive futile
lies / We will visit long enough to review
as subordinates bow & divide / Our poet
Rochester would have flourished – under
wit’s re-tweeted cries – as inferior artists
fell under Facebook’s clamorous denials
E210120
Your brief candle will light
my abdication – write it down
Please – remove my crown
before its weight crushes me
Fatigue feeds on my blue blood
Pain gifts me my hangman’s name
Those two princes of discomfort
underscore their dungeon games
in a discord of old tower songs –
far too loudly at times for my liking
Let me walk from my obligation
of parades – of polite conversation –
of waving and doing dull functions
Let those two would-be kings loose
upon my sex-ensnared queen
and leave me to tighten my noose
Day-glo tourists and hoary men –
stiff in their dour ashen suits –
not much has changed
beyond Victoria’s cast arches –
still a Queen and commoners
standoff and watch each other
from behind quick net curtains
and wrought iron barriers
as black cabs and red buses
match those travellers’ hopes
of a London of old curiosities –
with a high price tag to boot
Grenadiers play at army games
but all I see is Spike’s Neddy –
unlike Freddy – parading in heat
under a bear weight of headgear
to guard sweet sperm of kings
in their capital residencies –
where penguin-suited servants
respond to royal commands
whilst we all grovel like a Goon
under that ongoing burden
of keeping up appearances
in our less sumptuous palaces
And my return journey home
through ticket-licking turnstiles –
out beyond a thousand kisses –
is to where Sussex wears green
quite well
The small streets of Windsor are sparkling today –
it helps that the homeless were moved on their way
Union flags limp overhead – bought online for thirty quid –
as the old – the young – the poor
the ill – wait patiently – right until
The rich – the landed – the toffs –
the Dukes – pass them by – up high –
so aloof
Then roads are re-opened to one and all –
the returning beggars lay out their stalls
Once more in England there’s a tale to tell –
How a town was reduced to a right royal hell
I do not believe
in anything I read,
apart from the stutters
of rhymed poetry:
I will kneel down
to fix the any-things,
I know kneeling’s best done
beneath un-wed kings,
under His patronage,
under His state,
because Royalty commands
us plebs to wait:
Ladies, crowns, patronage
and the fine arts,
we queue in His corridor
to win His blue heart:
I will piss up my shed,
the oak-clad exterior,
and wish to piss
on the Royal posterior:
Believe nothing, son,
instead recall,
your grandfather died,
and your father was a fool:
Dig deep into ancestry,
for a small fee,
there you will find
no royalty.
The Queen is seeking more benefits,
to pay for her lazy brood,
she wants us to pay for building works,
‘cos Charles refuses to:
He’ll hide inside his Duchy,
nibbling on an organic quince,
Mummy’ gets the builders in,
to fix his inheritance.
Remove him from headlines,
bred, born to re-breed,
a future in carriages,
to be shoved on parade:
Feed him on privilege,
trade far his blue blood,
a kid with that lineage,
sell his charms for quick bucks:
An addition to the past,
of old Empire and pink maps,
but soon ruling Gormenghast,
this child waves, birth-trapped.
She ‘leased’ her son a Chopper,
first thought – the Raleigh-type?
Spending several millions,
it’s a helicopter, not a bike!
In these days of poverty,
don’t pay her any more,
no longer to be trusted,
with ‘Sovereign Grants’ for sure.
Students borrow cash (to learn),
debts, a travesty;
no grants for the masses,
but one for Mrs. Majesty.
Take our seated Monarch,
and her Hello-spread-out kids,
stick them in a council house,
there to live, to earn their keep:
But there’s no cheap re-housing
for the Saxe-Coburg clan;
“If they cannot find a B&B,
it’s back to their homeland!”
A chopper flight to Germany,
to queue up as immigrants:
They’ll claim that state’s foreign grants,
whilst we’ll set free our kids.
Answer me – Charles – take as long as you need –
do you know when you will accede?
Prince of Wales – dear chap – you may be disposed –
so instead get crowned on reality shows
Come Dancing – Chas – you would win in a puff –
plus Grand Designs – possibly not Bake Off
We’d all vote for you – ever so ‘umble –
You’ll be crowned King – of The TV Jungle
Corbyn didn’t drop before the Queen,
I stand too, with my political lean.
Immigrant Windsors on working credits,
deny them all their state benefits.
Which Tory is pleased to go and kneel,
before any other ‘low-born’ schlemiel*?
I suggest we bow down before the poor,
turn our backs now on the hereditary whore:
The Queen is dead, so long live the unclean,
my republican views, are they still so obscene?
*Slang: A habitual bungler; a dolt.
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 