Thursday, 5 May 2022

Stuffed

Stuff everywhere, this planet,
too much stuffing stuff,
hardly room to move,
hardly time to stuff,
sake for stuffing stuff.

They stuff it in the mail,
needless paper stuff,
full of my stuffing details,
so I stuff it with more stuff,
gathering stuffing dust.

Stuff for the sake of stuffing stuff,
stuff stuff stuff stuff stuff,
get me off this planet, please,
to stuff up someone else's stuff.



Saturday, 19 March 2022

The gold-laced wind

Fleeced in flaxen light,
the wind must now be golden,
my energy bills swollen,
as my fair wits face a slight
yet without recourse to fight
the injustice,
the gaslight.

Renewably,
I cannot bluster surprise
through my wool-beclouded eyes,
when there's no price paid for greed,
cronyists hoisting the lead,
unimpeded,
unabashed.

When the markets crash
once again they'll soar on gold
laced winds above the clods sold
down many a mud strewn trail,
matter churned to no avail,
bilked, diddled out
in the cold.



 

Thursday, 27 January 2022

Liar Liar, House on Fire

Pro rogue was a true enough description of Johnson's rise,
throbbing whopper after throbbing whopper,
as embers from his blazing saddle set curtains alight
and he brazenly wafts an empty extinguisher.

Liar, liar! Call the opposition benches.
Too much, says Mr Speaker, take it back.
One cannot, in this parliament, declare facts,
that would be quite untoward, and without precedent.



Saturday, 22 January 2022

Gwyneth Paltrow's Vagina

 Gwyneth Paltrow's vagina beguiles,
bamboozles, torments and terrifies
me in equal measure, much like the notion
of Boris preparing to mount 
one of his victims, or the British electorate. 

I'm a man of science and statistics, 
in a constant flux with deniers and sadistics. 

Graphs are as graphic as candles are explosive
in the wrong hands.

Between fanny fumes and parliamentary lies
I've been knocked right off my axis... 
... somewhere in row Z I'm floating around 
with barely a chance of hanging on to something, 
barely even a collision. 

I've essentially evaporated
and it's all your bloody fault, VagBo. 

There you go. 

A mental image for these spurious times. 

Sunday, 17 October 2021

Dance of the city bees

 On the farm
    they waggle a longing dance
    for that sweet floral hit
    of nourishing protein shake.

Life is hard
    out there in the barren sticks
    where workers scour the orzine beige,
    twerk to allay their distant itch.

Here in easy town
    the affluent trot like foxes,
    gliding across petal laden floors,
    a spring in each blossomed step.

In the urban jungle
    the gardens dazzle like meadows
    once upon a memory for hungry bees,
    who make honey, instead, in the city.

***

I read an article today, research showing that bees in the countryside must travel 50% farther than their city counterparts to find food, i.e. flowers. City gardens are now more varied and diverse than our so-called 'natural' landscapes.

Thanks jggrz (pixabay) for the photo.



Friday, 15 October 2021

Riddled out of Europe

An article in the news lies to me again
as I turn over once more and hit snooze,
phone in hand, head lopped to one side.
A viscous string of drool oozes onto the pillow.

I am incapacitated, not drunk,
merely struck dumb by the insinuation:
deaths in the UK, they say, are comparable.
The graph shows double, at least, to my trained eye.

A singularly stubborn nation breezes into pubs,
sneezing wantonly, coughing masklessly.
The kids are in school now, anyway.
Caution and wind approach a wheezing climax.

I feel silly yet safe, pint in hand, out in the chill,
wondering at these alien beings who laugh, indoors,
blissfully ignorant, or sanguine, I can never tell.
I think, they must have good private health insurance.





Sunday, 3 October 2021

Never diminish your fire

There are those who are meek and tick by.
There are those who are weak and don't try.
There are some who always seek better, and cry,

But their fire will burn down the ivory pyre.






Sunday, 11 April 2021

Ulster forsaken

Empty shelves tell their own tale of Brexit woe
in a troubled land forever forgotten,
by those with whom some choose to form a union,
cast aside by that ill considered vote.

Once it was Catholics who were second class,
civil rights marches and innocents culled
until four decades on peace was fulfilled,
only for all Ulster to now taste that bitterness.

When will the English learn never to draw lines
between lands their dominion left distraught? 
Petrol bombs mark old tensions newly fraught,
and we shudder as violence reignites. 




Saturday, 10 April 2021

An ancient relic of a subjugated land

An ancient relic,
decrepit, passes away
yet the sun still shines

over the remnants
of a subjugated land,
sick with fealty.

Twelve centuries
of uninterrupted rule
makes fools of the serfs

who plough the margins,
pushed out by the royal walls,
loyal to the last.


Saturday, 3 April 2021

How to get away with kidnap and torture in the UK (white privilege)

Let me shine some light through the tinted lens
of this supposedly colourblind state
by revisiting the tale of four cruel men,
one of whom would chance an untethered fate.

Chance, or institutional racism,
I will leave that down to your discretion,
member of the jury, whose sparkling prism
is undimmed, I'm sure, by predisposition.

The evidence incriminates all four men,
who bundled two victims into a car,
pistol whipped one with the back of a gun
and battered the other's toes with a hammer.

The incidents happened on separate nights,
registration plates traced to the bloodstained pile,
which CCTV showed in plain daylight
led to where the criminals would stay a while.

It was a crack den, where torturer's tools
further implicated the gang: DNA,
in hairs left by the violent young fools,
attached where the tortured had been bound by tape.

Skin from the knees of the victim linked him there,
singed onto the coiled metal of a grill,
hard to tell through his mutterings of despair
whether the aim was anything but mere thrill.

At the scene of the second kidnapping,
video showed that a cap was left behind.
That cap yielded DNA, led to a sting,
and each of the four men were held in binds.

As incontrovertible as that may seem,
though the evidence lay starkly in sight,
the sentences were six years, nine and nineteen,
for those who are black, but what of the white?

Members of the jury found him not guilty,
though video and DNA placed him there.
So much for your colourblind society,
his guilt is as plain as your bias laid bare.