Ratfucker

It’s better to be infamous
than never famous at all –
said the scuttling Ratfucker

Even with muscle memories
of weighty court bracelets
fresh in The Rodent’s mind

he still stood before a God –
one he did not get elected –
unlike the ferret on his back —

he won’t pay for its removal –
of Nixon – Stone now itches less
than the lustrous towering fool

whom he – Rat Man – won’t rat upon –
the sunburned – set-up – tycoon –
the fall guy wanting Moscow rooms

The Captured

Her story will be lost
by this time tomorrow –
Jakelin Ameí
Rosmery Caal Maquin –
even one so sweet –
many names for one
so small

And no memorial –
except a wall –
will ever be raised
by any state
to the first life lost
in Trump’s own war

A child – just seven –
in his custody – gone –
whilst his ugly patrols
pour water and scorn –
their cruel acts posted –
‘phone-boasted captures

Blow Winds

Ms. Stormy Daniels
you’ve raised a tempest –
not quite Shakespearian
but that of a temptress

A swellhead scorned
is a dangerous thing –
but once he’s made POTUS
he’ll act like a king

Rumble thy bellyful!
Spit, fire! Spout, rain!
Much like Shakespeare
he’ll end with exclaims

Poor naked wretches
whereso’er you are
That bide the pelting
of this pitiless storm

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.


 

Mutants

Princess Anne loves genetic crops,
she’s inbred-proof it really works,
there’s other experiments in mutation
displaying success beyond expectation:

Trump and Putin re-mixed the truth,
and now the States is democratic proof
that all it takes is a misogynist’s grab
to be Putin’s pussy; sat there on his lap.

This isle, set adrift by Farage’s caper,
limp as cold chips wrapped in newspaper,
is turning into another Gulliver’s find,
becoming a nation of the very small kind.

As toxic shocks of religion have shown
mix god with politics and here Hell will grow,
add in racism, bestow false hopes,
and the future becomes a right royal joke.

The Border

Should we care
that a man was held
upon re-entry
to Trump’s citadel?

A real American,
Muhammed Ali’s son,
stopped at the border
for his religion:

Detained for beliefs,
for his father’s choice,
once the loudest,
most American voice.

#postcardstoBannon

steve-bannon1Dear Steve Bannon,

How to re-heat evil?
You have it too easy
my Alt-right friend,

you have your way,
with hate, your hate,
your four-letter policy:

Hold their bowed heads,
bake their dark hearts,
and then drizzle piss

on their bile-boiled guts,
seasoned with toss-politics,
reasoning it is all for them.

There, my cruel friend,
is your simple recipe
to cook with iniquity.

Regards,

Mike Bell.

The Doppelgänger

St Theresa sat
on Trump’s stiff knee,
to him she was
a limey Queen,
but in her head she’s
Thatcher’s clone:
‘This dame’s my idea
of a woman I’d bone!’
Perhaps the future’s
perfect couple,
they both agree
to cause less trouble.
Hand-in-hand,
off they go,
but he’ll dump her soon
in Guantanamo.

Putin’s Law


Multiply subordinates,
not your rivals,
as Parkinson’s Law
stands, as it applies:
Nothing to do with
shuddered disease,
more about huge
bureaucracies:
A law equally applied
to the world’s leaders,
with their hidden desire
for sinister pleasures.
Putin has studied
this arcane resolve,
he’s running America
through Trump’s arsehole.


 

Lost Dad


Dad turned into a dog just before
the US-presidential election,
the world was changing so much
that anything, anything was possible,
like Dad becoming a cross-breed,
like Dad then shitting on our lawn,
(Dad never, ever, did that before).
He turned into a beautiful mongrel,
possibly part-Labrador, part-Poodle:
‘Stupid, with good looks,’ was all Mum said.
But what do we do about it?
I spent a few days hugging him,
trying not to catch his sad eyes.
What could I do? I am only sixteen.
Mum was rubbish, she told no one,
not even Gramps, who knows everything.
We were confused, in our own little world.
Perhaps the re-count would happen,
and prove that Russians fixed the election,
and Dad would become Dad again?
Not likely, according to the feeds I grazed upon:
Yes, I do RSS. I AM a child of the internet,
we don’t all just do Insta-snap.
I sat at the window, the grass grew high outside,
Dad’s peeing on it made no difference:
Mum got a cute lawn boy in,
who complained about Dad’s shits.
Try scooping them up each morning!
On the seventh day I bought a lead for Dad,
Mum was still in denial, so I took him out:
Opposite our house are the best woods ever,
once you have crossed the dangerous road,
the one Dad forever moaned about.
But now he strained at his lead,
desperate to cross, no matter what.
He responded well to my commands,
which I had looked up on Google.
He ran off, like a furious sprinter:
Dad had never run anywhere before.
I watched him spin on the loose dry leaves,
chasing the wind-blown ones,
and then he disappeared, forever.


Card Shark

Protectionism is the Trump card,
and with his Ace the West will shut,
reduced trade and less bartering,
see the embers of boom then lost.

Our bank rates will rise tomorrow,
as our true values take a dive,
the right will scream for purity,
as the beaten left, again, divides.

Shadows from the last century
are returning on the scans,
science has since developed,
but lies are fact for businessmen.

Trump hid from early battles,
draft dodged it is said,
perhaps now he’ll take a bullet,
to become a short-lived President.

Special Relative


Typesetters once did it
with wooden blocks,
but they used the wrong text,
now this confusion results:

They set out the erred-words:
‘Special Relationship’,
but should have laid out:
‘Small Useful Airstrip’:

Two countries separated
by a language neither speak,
and the marriage is damaged,
the special relationship creaks:

Trump puts us low,
dropped to ninth on the list,
when he ‘phones round the world,
to check who he can trust.

The Daily Mail will suck
on Donald’s presidential cock,
and Theresa May will kneel,
fumbling for his fat-dollar-knob.


 

Hillarity

Oh, F*ck, Oh F*ck,
Hillary’s ill!
Time to ‘OD’
on sleeping pills!

America, America,
Please do not crap
on this ‘free’ world,
it’s just a cat-nap:

Let her recover
in bed, and the polls,
then she’ll kick Trump
far-right in his balls.