Monday, 24 October 2022

The cuckoo's bronze egg

Today I spied a cuckoo fly
above a golden cignet's lair
and for a while she settled there.

She left a bronze-laid alloyed egg,
for the swans had blinded eyes,
and she cackled at her own audacity.

Unwittingly they nursed that egg,
tainted though it made the nest,
as when the bronze defiler hatched
he slew the chicks and flew,
where he knew best,
at one with the pigs in the sky.

Friday, 9 September 2022

Not my family

I cannot feel sad. How can I be?
I did not know her, she didn't know me.
Understandably, some mourn.
She has been an evergreen, if slowly withering presence.

But she was born into luxury. Sheer, entitled luxury.
She had dibs on all the land under my feet.
And so does he.

No-one made them serve, if that's what it is.
My taxes paid for it.

Can we leave it as it is.
An antique.
A relic.

Queen Elizabeth II,
the best, and last, of a brazen bunch who never had a right to rule over me.

Saturday, 6 August 2022

Rishi rich and thick Lizzy

No chance of win if inflation sticks,
Rishi rich says, as thick Lizzy
strays down the Tory u bend
where it's hard to bleach,
never mind brush,
so deep down.

I wonder who'll clean it up?

A new election dawns,
Rishi rich plucks pennies from the pawns,
golden ducks trot through Tunbridge lawns,
quacking maniacally, guffaw,
they don't know any better, the poor.



Tuesday, 24 May 2022

Amber Heard and Johnny Depp, and the terrible tale of power

Some say, forgive them,
that Amber Heard,
or misheard,
mutually abused
that jolly pirate rogue.

I don't buy that.

If I bought that,
I'd have to conclude that Ukraine
mutually attacked
the Russian invaders.

One must not hit back, you know.
Take it quietly.
Think of England, or Putin. Something.
Just deal with it.

But in the plays of power
that's the narrative that sustains.

Shit stains on the bed (disproven),
for some,
proof she had it coming.

Millions in Gaza displaced,
their homes taken away,
their schools and hospitals razed.

Yet mere stones and miscellaneous rockets,
against the missiles and air defences,
brand the abused the aggressors

according to the oppressors.

That's the poison of power,
this narrative that's hard to shake.

And so the the popular opinion rests
with the one they like to think
is their funny, pirate friend.

The other?

At her wits' end.

"And you dare to call me a terrorist,
while you look down your gun,
and I think of all the deeds that you have done.

You have plundered many nations,
divided many lands,
you have terrorised their people,
you ruled with an iron hand
and you brought this reign of terror
to my land."


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.