Monday, 27 March 2017

Soldiers of western fortune



Soldiers of western fortune

Soldiers of western fortune
Marched across the sand
Of the desert; then a graveyard
To a bombed and broken land
There wasn’t much to see there
Not an office, not a store,
Not a school, not a playground
Not a window, not a door

But there was an obligation
To stay there for a while
And some of the population
Was questioned; put on trial
Many “Insurgents” labelled
In prison there confined
Bonded in common hatred
For the ways of western kind

When the soldiers left as “Heroes”
On government advice
A fragile administration
Was left to its own device
The prison population
No longer there contained
Found a caliph, sympathetic
To the hatred now ingrained

They gathered and they listened
In numbers more and more
To Proclamations spoken
Liberation, holy war
Brandished then with weapons
From distant foreign lands
They marched beneath their banner
Across the desert sands

They found a destination
Declared a “Caliphate”
The city and population
Now an “Islamic State”
Ruled with ancient laws
From the seventh century
“Transgressors” daily slaughtered
And filmed for all to see

And many escaped the terror
Of those barbaric laws
Exchanged all their possessions
And came to western shores
Whilst others being tempted
By the lure of “God’s” warfare
Found ways to cross the borders
And join with ISIS there

Some of them returned
As refugees disguised
The innocent and guilty
Now both equally despised
Atrocities committed
In western cities now
Creating more division 
With every passing hour

By populist demand
Another war’s declared
All costs deemed irrelevant
No expenses spared
The “Will of the people” spoken
The foe identified
The time for diplomacy’s over
Let missiles and drones decide

Soldiers of western fortune
March across the sand
Of the desert: still a graveyard
To a bombed and broken land
Nothing left but ruins
The same as another before
Not an orphanage, mosque, or hospital
Not a window, not a door

There was an obligation
Supposedly fulfilled
The city reduced to rubble
The Caliphate captured, killed
The soldiers return as “Heroes”
Away from suffering and pain
As another caliph emerges
And the cycle begins again

Sunday, 19 March 2017

Furs




Furs

On a night when not one fuck was given
In an orange Mini being driven
By a mate who as far as I could tell
Was speeding and spaced out as well

I passed him a joint and he said to me
The road’s disappeared mate I can’t see
Then he without any hesitation
Drove over the central reservation

It was surreal like in a dream
Seeing a lorry with lights on full beam
Come hurling towards us at full pelt                                                 
Barely a trace of emotion was felt

We went back over the central line
Not a word came out of his mouth or mine
I skinned up a joint and thought Oh well
And we both laughed and said Fucking hell

The Psychedelic Furs had played that night
And we agreed they were well alright
As we pulled up outside my mate’s abode
Wide awake and still in gig mode

His wife was still up and so was their cat
We had cups of tea and then we sat
And watched Chloe in the living room
Pushing kittens out of her womb

We sat and watched he his wife and I
Till after a haze of time passed by
Eventually four kittens appeared
A Purrrfect ending to a night so weird

 It’s strange this story that sticks in my head
(And it was quite strange it has to be said)
But every now and then it makes me smile
To look back and ponder just for a while

That night (with a fuck really not given)
The old orange mini (long ago driven)
The cat and kittens (no longer alive)
And the Furs in London in ‘eighty five