In The Peaceful Moments Prior To Sleep

 

In The Peaceful Moments Prior To Sleep

 

In the peaceful moments prior to sleep

I hold you close as consciousness withdraws

And as embracing we each other keep

I long to join my loving soul with yours

And travel birdlike far across the sea

To paradise where suffering’s no more

As one both man and woman we would be

Androgynous like once we were before

And in that paradise the truth we’d know

And understand its mystery complete

Reluctantly away from there we’d go

And separate our souls that once did meet

To waken in forgetfulness of bliss

Yet still embracing you and I would kiss

Festive Memory

 

Festive memory

 

Christmas 2000, something or other;

The in-laws came over; stayed the whole day;

We exchanged presents with one another,

As the festive tunes droned, on repeat play,

I drank too much, three hours before eating

A mound of turkey, sprouts and sausage meat,

After which, due to a lack of seating,

I slept on the floor, all through Corrie Street,

EastEnders, Shrek, or some other like guff,

Woke up, played games, felt jaded and dead beat,

The in-laws agreed we’d all had enough,

In anticipation of a retreat,

And when they went home, the day being through,

I stayed up and watched The Godfather 2.

William The 2nd

 

William The 2^nd

 

Mr Shakespeare

From Warwickshire

Put down his quill

And quivered with cheer

 

Am I the first?

He asked of the nurse

She said no Will

This isn’t your verse

 

In spite of the fame

Attached to your name

The number one spot

Is not yours to claim

 

For no real reason

Margaret Keenan

Received the first shot

From Pfizer this season

 

William resigned

To second place lined

Ventured a glance    

At Dickie behind

 

And Dickie I heard

Once given the word 

Jumped at the chance  

To be Richard the 3^rd

Lake Of Blood

 

Lake Of Blood

 

Thoughts of animals, heading to slaughter,

Locked up in trucks in perpetual fear,

Enter my mind, like unbidden water;

Cows, sheep and pigs; all randomly appear;

I see them led to their deaths, every one;

Mere units on a meat production line,

And, upon reaching the slaughterer’s gun,

I hear every scream and terrified whine;

I feel their despair, each sentient being;

Their blood is a lake of tears in my mind,

Yet my eyes stay dry, in spite of seeing

This barbarism on animal-kind,

For if of that lake I released one drop,

I fear I wouldn’t be able to stop.

Atys

 

Atys

 

A philosophy school in Phrygia,

Once had a religious idea:

A god known as Atys,

(Some called him Adonis),

With origins not at all clear,

 

Was born, so the mysteries say,

In December, the 24^th day,

And he was pulled free,

From his mother, a tree;

For the gods, it’s said, turned her that way.

 

I’ve hardly perused, I confess;

Of his life I know little, or less,

If you wish to explore,  

Let a book tell you more,

It’s his death that I here now address.

 

Of accounts of his death there’re two;

The first says a boar gored him through,

In the other, he’s dead;

Self-emasculated,

(Yes indeed, what a strange thing to do).

 

The pine, beneath which he was found,

By Cybele, was pulled from the ground,

Tree and god, she then gave,

To the care of a cave,

But Atys to death wasn’t bound.  

 

For three months, his body lay well,

Decaying not, as when he fell,

Then upwards he rose,

Now Heaven he knows,

Where angels and righteous souls dwell.

 

On leaving, he gave to the tree,

His spirit’s immortality,

The tree, in his name,

Symbolic became,

And passed into our history.

 

And though this short tale may appear,

In clarity, wanting, I fear,

I hope you’ll agree,

Or at least partly see,

There's a Christmas tree link with Phrygia.

COVID Test

 

COVID Test.

 

Prior to an impending operation,

I was required to have a COVID swab;

I went to the drive-through testing station

And there was told by a nurse on the job;

“We’ve run out of kits, I’m sorry to say;

Too many people have taken the test;

We’ll have to test you a different way”.

Then, quite suddenly, a bare arse was pressed

Against my face, and a fart it let blow;

I sat, frozen in a state of surprise;

I didn’t have time to shut the window.

The fart filled the car, brought tears to my eyes,

The nurse said to me; “Can you smell that dear?”

I replied “Yes!”, and she gave the all clear.

Damaged

 

Damaged

 

I lie awake at night in dread

Of thoughts occurring in my head

The older I get the more I find

My thoughts are damaging my mind

 

I on occasion wake from sleep

And nightmares still about me creep

They linger with malicious spite

And on my skin they sting and bite

The older I get the more I find

My thoughts are damaging my mind

 

I wish that I could make it clear

Exactly what it is I fear

It threatens poverty despair

Beneath a sign that says BEWARE

As good and evil truth and lies

All equally catastrophize

The older I get the more I find

My thoughts are damaging my mind

 

Some nights I breathe a final breath

The kind you feel when facing death

I gasp awake before I fall

The heedless world sleeps through it all

With clarity I see no trace

Of hope upon a helpless race

And somehow feeling I’m to blame

For every single human shame

I slumber having lost the fight

Against the terrors of the night

The older I get the more I find

My thoughts are damaging my mind

 

In days gone by I welcomed dawn

And I with every stretch and yawn

Would shed the night-time ghouls away

Embrace the newness of the day

Contemporary monsters burn

Oh how for youthful days I yearn

When I could easily ignore

The demons banging on the door

These days the demons overwhelm

More doubtful I defend my realm

I manage still but only just

To shut out their persistent thrust

And I enfeebled by each doubt

Have barely strength to keep them out

The older I get the more I find

My thoughts are damaging my mind

 

Old Bones

 

 

Old bones

A skeleton from the closet, jumped out,

Staggered around, by the edge of the bed,

And, conjuring cans and bottles about,

He sang me an ode, lamenting the dead:

Buried memories, long since forgotten,

Paralytic phantoms, ghosts from the past;

Tales drink related, shameful and rotten,

I heard, as I froze and silently gasped,

And when he’d finished his terrible song,

(The lyrics of which I’ll not tell a soul),

With skeletal hands, incredibly strong,

He tugged and twisted, and threw off his skull,

And into my lap that damaged skull fell;

Alas, alcoholic; I knew him well.

Sore Loser

 

Sore Loser 

Trump, turning a shade of the deepest red;

Tweeted, retweeted, and tweeted again;

The postal votes are fraudulent, he said;

Demanding said votes be counted again.

He sat on the toilet, tweeted some more,

Went to his bedroom, applied orange tan,

QAnonaded Twitter with tweets galore,

Incautiously risking a Twitter ban.

The votes, rising in favour of Biden,

In spite of Trump’s tweets continued to mount,

And as he watched that winning gap widen,

He tweeted, demanding a ballot recount.

But so far it seems, no law’s been broken;

Trump’s still tweeting; the people have spoken.

Cyril and Sid (remembered)

Cyril and Sid (remembered)

 

Today I remembered Cyril and Sid:

Veterans of the Second World War;

They knew what they had to do, and they did.

 

In ‘seventy seven, I was a kid,

And they were kids back in ‘forty four;

Today I remembered Cyril and Sid.

 

Kept in a box, with a tightly bound lid:

Old memories of whatever they saw;

They knew what they had to do, and they did.

 

Feelings connected with battle they hid,

Like guarded oaths, to which they both swore;

Today I remembered Cyril and Sid.

 

On Normandy’s beaches, their lives were bid;

Brothers in arms on a bloodied shore;

They knew what they had to do, and they did.

 

Long ago soldiers, standing amid

Old conscripts, living, or with us no more;

Today I remembered Cyril and Sid;

They knew what they had to do, and they did.  

Private Island

 

 

Private Island

 

Kim Kardashian had a health screen;

Asked everyone to quarantine,

And after two weeks, they took a trip

To an island of private ownership,

And there her inner circle and she,

Imagined a world of normality;

They swam near whales, danced by the shore,

Kayaked, rode bikes and so much more!

Yes, a great time they had on the beach,

One for most people, far out of reach,

Humbly reminded Kim tweeted this:

“How privileged”, she said, “My life is”.

 

Her tweet rankled with me, I admit;

Made me fair jealous, more than a bit,

And then I recalled a holiday

I had with my wife in Akumal Bay:

We lounged in paradise, she and I,

Where turtles swim, pelicans fly,

Humming birds hover, iguanas creep

And crickets chirp while the jet lagged sleep.

We ate in restaurants, drank in bars,

In our resort, awarded five stars,

And for two weeks we frolicked in style;

Lived like a king and queen for a while.

 

Not far away, there was poverty;

A lowly, shanty town by the sea;

The families living there were nice;

Gave us tequila, chili and rice,

And in comparison to their need,

I felt rich and “Privileged” indeed,

But did I feel humbled? Maybe I did;

Then again, who am I trying to kid?

If I were a Kardashian peer;

A part of her closest, inner sphere;

Given an invitation to go

To paradise, I wouldn’t say no.

Feed Now Ask Questions Later

 

Feed now ask questions later

 

Millions of poor children in the UK

(One of the world’s richest economies),

Will soon have a food source taken away;

The vote of more than three hundred MPs

(Who, incidentally seemed happy to raise

No objection to a rise of three grand),

Ended free meals during school holidays

For children below the poverty band.

Conservatives, seeking to justify,

Boast of a generous welfare state,

Others, questioning and reasoning why,

Endlessly procrastinate and debate.

Why can’t the causes be explored later?

Kids need to eat, whatever the data.

Oven Ready

 

Oven ready

 

As widely predicted, there isn’t a deal;

The one Boris bragged was oven ready,

Turned out to be a non-existent meal;

Now we’ll be like “Australia”, said he;

The Canadian style relationship,

(So-labelled) based on, “Friendship and free trade”,

Was rejected, and, shooting from the hip,

Ignoring the doubts of opponents dismayed,

Boris declared: “With high hearts and complete

Confidence, we will prepare to embrace

The alternative”, and all the conceit,

And deception showed plainly on his face;

Does he really believe no one can see

He’s full of bullshit? Or is it just me?

Corporate Girl

 

Corporate girl

 

Fatima the ballerina

Hardly anybody’s seen her

Pointe shoes traded for stilettoes

All the theatres being ghettos 

There’s a mural on the wall

The Barbican Royal Albert Hall

Holding bays for Amazon now

Since they gave a final bow

 

Fatima fell through the ice

Took some government advice

To rethink and then reboot

Spent a few months picking fruit

Wound up in security

Cos as anyone can see

Pirouetting doesn’t pay

Now the theatre’s gone away

Past Acquaintance

 

Past acquaintance

 

Past acquaintance, wherever you may be,

If you’re reading this, allow me to say,

Profusely and with all sincerity:

Sorry for causing you, back in the day,

Physical and psychological pain;

I was an ignorant boy, immature,

And if I could have my youth back again,

In light of the grief I made you endure,

I’d treat you now with compassion in mind,

Not be a bully who preys on the weak,

And now the bulk of my years are behind,

I’m far more inclined to offer my cheek,

Aspiring to be the kindest of men;

I’m not the same person I was back then.

 

I read of a German boy; seventeen,

When Nazi lies were regarded as truth;

If all teenagers are equally green,

Can we forgive him the crimes of his youth?

There’s no comparison, many protest,

But when you look at it, can you be sure?

Certainly, defiance would have been best,

When persecution was passed into law,

But who’d be a martyr, when a mere child?

Let alone a brainwashed brutalised one;

Now ninety four, arrested and reviled,

The past atrocities can’t be undone;

Should then recipients of his abuse

Consider his youth a valid excuse?

Vague News

 

 

Vague news

 

The egoist without a peer

Blindingly with violent light

Infects the boys with boundless fear

Beguiles the angels of delight 

Falls lustfully on partial sight

Keeps demons hidden in the rear

 

And in the corner of my eye

As windows crack and shatter near

In tandem with the Russian spy

‘Midst plastic spoons and bottled beer

(There’s nothing to recycle here)

I watch the politicians lie

 

The host of demons overdue

With magic dust materialise

As saints are beaten black and blue

And maggots match your eyes to flies

Like fading martyrs in disguise

News presenters hide from view

 

And meanwhile on the seven seas

Aboard the hood ship lolly strop

The pirates hand to refugees

Pangolins from the butcher’s shop

Fill heads with Chinese fantasies

And wait for viruses to drop

 

And here he is our fateful doom

(We wondered where you were my friend)

The elephant is in the room

The angels gradually ascend

The demons easily offend

And doctor’s living stones presume

 

Behold the fateful doom declares

A gift from God I have no less

As spectres walk away in pairs

Two hundred thousand (more or less)

And news presenters second guess

The motives of the billionaires

 

Now you and I await our fate

Like autumn leaves in wind and rain

Susceptible to love and hate

And algorithms of the brain

As imps decidedly insane

Construct a wall around our state

Black Shirts

 

Black Shirts

 

Donald Trump, demonstrating on a stage,

How wisdom really doesn’t come with age,

Shouted insults, debated not at all,

Made America look daft and uncool,

Refused to condemn white supremacists,

All but condoned the actions of racists,

Blamed the Democrats for the country’s hurts,

And halted the sale of the Proud Boy’s shirts.

 

Stand back and standby, but I tell you what;

If Biden’s all the opposition’s got,

Then the only hope, come Election Day,

Is the income tax, that Trump didn’t pay;

Impoverished fence-sitters taking note,

Biden consequently winning the vote,

Taking office, deciding to retire,

Then giving the reins to someone less dire.

Subsidence

 

Subsidence

 

Due to house subsidence

And following compliance

The board of powers-that-be

Condemned an old oak tree

 

Hence all the oak tree’s subjects

Squirrels birds and insects

From nests and hollows poured

As chainsaws buzzed and roared

 

And upon it being felled  

All the occupants expelled

I counted many rings

Autumns winters summers springs

 

And came to the conclusion

We’re under an illusion

If in our complexity

To the insects gods are we

 

Then to gods we’re surely too

Under microscopic view

Being viewed as nothing worth

On our dwelling planet Earth

 

And the gods then for their sake

May be given cause to break

By the ruling of a board

Of superior accord

 

If the lower powers-that-be

Condemn an old oak tree

Higher cause is justified

Should the universe subside

 

Fodder

 Fodder

 

Looking back, secondary school was cruel;

Many a sensitive soul was battered;

Fight to survive, seemed to be the main rule,

Or at least the only one that mattered,

Once primary innocence was shattered,

Upon being punched and kicked in the head

In the playground, by the bicycle shed.

 

School finished for him on reaching sixteen,

When he, (after learning not much apart

From how to pretend to be brutal, mean,

Not at all cowardly, should a fight start,

And how to suppress the cries of a heart),

Left with an average lower than D,

And started a job in a factory.

 

On the morning train to Liverpool Street,

He stood in the midst of a smoky haze,

With other commuters, bereft of a seat,

Crammed like the cigarette butts in ashtrays,

(You could still smoke on the train in those days),

With a morning rag (The Sun, or some shit)

Unread and tucked underneath his armpit.

 

He rode each day in those carriages brown,

And things stayed the same for nigh on two years,

Till work relocated to another town,

And he, after saying goodbye over beers,

Moved to new pastures, along with his peers:

Colleagues and friends on the factory floor,

Who followed the firm to avoid being poor.

 

They left for a new town, reluctantly,

To follow the carrot that dangled there,

In front of their faces, persuasively;

Offering hope and a future quite fair:

A salaried pension beyond compare,

For which, after years of service they’d be

Thankful to those at the top of the tree.

 

And so after years of service there came

A salaried pension? No not at all;

Job cuts were announced, and our hero’s name

Was under the axe that was bound to fall;

The final package was terribly small,

And the management’s sadly sailed away;

Gone to wherever the billionaires stay.

 

Looking back, secondary school, was grim

A test of his endurance, nothing more;

Was that then the plan for many like him?

The law of the jungle’s hard to ignore;

It’s too easy to be fodder for sure;

Destined for the scrap heap, labelled unskilled,

Unwritten prophesies being fulfilled.  

The Magnificent Seven

 

The Magnificent Seven

Led by a man of heroic renown

With visages set in expressions grave,

The black-clad gunslingers rode into town,

Fearless, determined and tirelessly brave.

Silent, they ambled along the high street,

And many a peasant, joyfully cried;

“The seven are here!” as hopeful hearts beat

In anticipation, tension and pride.

The seven samurai came to the green,

And there awaited the terrible foe,

But those they sought were nowhere to be seen,

As mask-wearing marshals entered the show,

And, at a distance of two metre span,

The seven were herded into a van.

After the marshals had driven away,

The bandits' leader appeared and declared;

“You’ll all be paying me double today,

If you want your homes and lives to be spared”.

The hapless peasants then went back inside;

Waited with dread in self-isolation;

The help they’d sought was abruptly denied,

And what was the cause of their frustration?

The “Rule of six”, of which had been spoken

By the prime minister four nights before;

Unfortunately, that rule was broken,

By the magnificent, being one more,

And, in accordance with Boris’s speech,

The seven were fined a hundred pounds each.

Cashless Society

 

Cashless society 

Internet banking’s not for me

I don’t want to live in a world cash-free

I’m not equipped for banking online

My phone’s not smart

It’s a burner design

Complete with a crack

On its smeary screen

(The druggies and dealers

Know what I mean)

So all you hackers

Out for a sting

You can phish all you like

You won’t catch a thing

Don't Blame The Parents

 

Don’t blame the parents

 

Is it your view

That world war two

Is on the tyrant’s dad

Who daily flew

With beatings blue

Upon his sickly lad?

 

And could it be

Your soul is free

And innocent of blame

For any crimes

In present times

For which you feel no shame?

 

Your mum and dad

Both drove you mad

And hence in consequence  

You as a child

Alas ran wild

Bereft of innocence

 

Now blame each takes

For your mistakes

Inducing me to beg

One question more

What comes before?

The chicken or the egg?

 

For you today

Still make them pay

And here’s a bitter pill

The past abuse

Seems poor excuse

For grown-ups of free will

Gone to seed

Gone to seed

Exercise for him, was always a wrench;

For gyms, he never really felt the need;

Neither having pressed nor pushed from a bench;

He rarely walked beyond minimum speed,

But in spite of all that, he looked okay;

Overweight and obese, he’d never been;

Pot-belly and moobs were kept well at bay,

With five-a-day veg and meat very lean.

Then one day he, for some reason acquired

An appetite much larger than before;

The alcohol, meat and sweets he desired,

Became temptations he couldn’t ignore;

In short, he succumbed to middle-age greed,

And it has to be said: he’s gone to seed.

BBB

BBB

Bellowing Brexit bollocks

Beefy Bold blatantly blue

British biker brigades

Backing baseball bat

Brandishing bouncers

Boozed bottled beverages

Before badly battering  

BLM boys brazenly branded

Balmy Bolsheviks

By Boris bootlickers

In His Wife's Shoes

In his wife’s shoes

Trump in a pair of stilettos

Canvassed the poorest of ghettos

He danced in the street

To a nationalist beat

And wished he was wearing Repettos  

Second Wave

Second wave

Soaking sun like leeches

Screaming in delight  

Crowding Britain’s beaches

With not a mask in sight

People are defying

Instinctively they bathe

Unknowingly each trying

To catch the second wave

Life's a Test

Life’s a test

Looking down

From the edge

Of despair

A man cries

Life’s a test

Or else

What’s the point

Of all the pain?

People below

One foot dangling

Over their heads

Conducting them

Gazes transfixed

Silence spreads

I’m a performer

Tight rope walking

Between buildings tall

I wonder

How many are hoping

To see me fall?

Silence prevails

Resigned to fate

A deep breath

He gets ready to jump

WAIT!

Frozen unsure

The ground below

The time

Between here

And there

Quickly?

Slow?

Falling

Thoughts arise

What will they be?

Hitting the ground

Will his soul be

Free?

Whatever you believe

Or fear

What’s last

Is a testament

That led you here

When time ceases

Thoughts

Are no more

Your last

Is the key

To eternity’s door

In an ambulance

Rescued by

Words

Entering his head

Can you repeat

What you said?

Nothing

Says a policeman

A seed  sown

The voice

Was none other

Than his own?

Back from the brink

No longer

Distressed

Seeing differently

Still

Life’s a test

Paths lead to

Sorrow wars

Others

Peace

Which one’s yours?

Epilogue or The Convict's Dream

Epilogue or The Convict’s Dream

A deadly plague of hate and blame

From Asia’s deepest regions came

And when its victory was gained

All but a chosen few remained

Each particle of pestilence

Had self-will and intelligence

And breathed in by humanity

It caused a mass-insanity

Inasmuch as one would to feel

They uniquely had the skill

Of knowledge quite unshakeable

All others being breakable

Each effectively obtained

A gospel truth divinely gained

God’s pronouncements set in stone

Theirs to spread and theirs alone

Cities were to madness driven

Villages and towns were riven

Businesses failed to run

And no one trusted anyone

Neither was a cure found

Nor shared belief nor common ground

The mass infected couldn’t see

In absence of humility

Families drove each other mad

Never-ending fights they had

Locked in permanent confliction

Tied in knots by proud conviction

Ministries abruptly ceased

Members every one a beast

Failing to communicate

Eaten up with mutual hate

Armies mobilised and they

Disintegrated anyway

Comrades turning on each other

Stabbing shooting one another

Food and water being denied

Animals neglected died

And on every farming plot

Crops unpicked were left to rot

All over Earth the virus spread

Till there were very many dead

And no one but the chosen few

Survived to start the world anew

*******************

On waking in a conscious stream

Of thought upon the convict’s dream

Inside my head I made a leap

To wide awake from sound asleep

And in the early morning light

I considered wrong and right

What Dostoevsky had to say

Seemed prophetical that day

With favoured views superior

We wade into hysteria

Remonstrate with all the rest

Convince ourselves that we know best

And as I think I comprehend

Yet still I question in the end

Pondering the chosen few

Who would they be if dreams came true?

The bunker

The bunker

Hiding in a bunker in forty five,

From anti-fascists, Hitler, running scared

And determined not to be caught alive,

Took a cyanide capsule, pre-prepared,

And tested on his dog some time before.

Eva did the same, consequently died,

And Hitler, presumably to be sure

Of success in committing suicide,

Gave himself a wound with his service gun;

And that, being as fatal as the pill,

Made doubly certain the job was well done;

The ending, perfectly fitting the bill,

Of despot, in a bunker, underground;

Does that sentence have a familiar sound?

What goes around

What goes around

Communists and Nazis

Fought each other’s parties

And the ruckus carried on

All through the night

Till finally both teams

Of political extremes

Joined hands and formed

A line from left to right  

Each end it was observed

Towards the other curved

And when they met

All hands were tightly bound

And with a karaoke

They sang the Okey Cokey

Together in a circle

Spinning round 

Don't spread hate in the name of Lee

Don’t spread hate in the name of Lee

Don’t spread hate in the name of Lee;

You’re adding to the nations’s pain;

Show some respect for his family.

The murderous beasts will never see

Beyond a prison’s walls again;

Don’t spread hate in the name of Lee.

Against an entire community,

His photograph is used in vain;

Show some respect for his family.

You’re tarnishing his memory;

And more division you’ll attain;

Don’t spread hate in the name of Lee.

His mother recently made a plea;

Your hurtful comments are a bane,

Show some respect for his family.

If all lives matter; as you tell to me,

And if you claim to be humane,

Don’t spread hate in the name of Lee;

Show some respect for his family.

Dom

Dom

When she had the dread disease

That brought the country to its knees

The government advisor’s spouse

Should have stayed inside the house

In isolation for a spell

Along with Dominique as well

According to the rules set down

By Dom the party and the clown

But clearly having none have that

She called her husband for a chat

And consequently off they fled

To Durham many miles ahead

Where baby sitters just in case

Resided at Dom’s parent’s place

There being not a single one

In London who could have their son

Should Dom and Mary start to feel

Both equally extremely ill

And sure enough Dom did indeed

The next day follow Mary’s lead

He had to spend some days in bed

With fever and an aching head

And when his son went in decline

The remedy was 999

But it was nothing thankfully

A test proclaimed him COVID free

And some days later Dom himself

Was feeling in much better health

He made a call to those in power

And told them he felt better now

But Mary was quite worried still

She wasn’t going home until

She knew his eyes were at their best

And so therefore at her request

To make quite sure that he could see

Dominque drove his family

To Barnard Castle where he found

His eyesight to be safe and sound

It was the simplest of trials

That half hour trip of thirty miles

But Dominque unwittingly

Albeit acting flippantly

In view of nothing being said

About the trip that went ahead

Has started now a brand new trend

Inasmuch as I comprehend

Now if you have COVID 19

And babysitters can’t be seen

You can visit most anywhere

Go on a daytrip once you’re there

And if your vision is impaired  

All prosecution will be spared

As long as you remember to

Say that’s what Dominique would do

Chy Nah

Chy Nah

It’s all the fault of China

Said the grabber of vagina

And believers in the dream

Of America supreme

Golden pavements private health

Enterprise expansive wealth

And Hydroxychloroquine

Hailed the man with orange skin

With a God Almighty roar

As they psyched themselves for war

For nothing could be finer

Than enmity with China

Corona comes from China

The COVID grand designer

Was suggested to the crowd

Of disciples white and proud

Waving flags for whom God saves

With decedents owning slaves

Decent folk Trump does declare

To reporters everywhere

Not condemning their attacks

On guiltless jogging blacks

And other things quite minor

Compared with crimes of China

Let’s go to war with China

And make the tariffs higher

Hinted Donald in a tone

Like Greg Stillson’s in Dead Zone

He was merely talking trade

But the groundwork’s being laid

For a possible exchange

Of ballistics fired long range

Or at least it seems to me

That’s a possibility

When every Trump one-liner

Appears to end with China

Insomina

Insomnia 

How is a street of houses not hice

If more than one mouse is ruled to be mice?

Why do the measurements height and weight   

Respectively rhyme with white and mate?

How can an H be silent in hour

What is the purpose of K in knowhow?

Where is the logic in peer or fear

If pear's like dare and deer's like near?

Why does a wound not have the same sound

As pound except when a clock’s being wound?

How can the plural of hoof be hooves

Or hoofs when roofs can no longer be rooves?

Why have an N in damns but not grams?

How no sheeps when there can be lambs?

What is the need of an E in more?

Twos Os in door yet never in law?

The GHT residing in bright

Silently present in fight delight

Insight and blight but not so in bite

Mite spite kite rite or stalagmite

Has kept me awake for many a night

And try as I might with eyes shut tight 

I toss and turn in sleepless flight

Considering words like freight and sleight.

Great Britain

Great Britain

Equity sharing and healthcare free,

Would surely make Britain a "Great" place to be,

Yet a more and more private and a nationalist state,

Might now be for Britain, and won't make it "Great".

Miracle Cure

Miracle cure

Outside the house,

As Trump announced,

To a journalist in a meeting,

That disinfectant and UV light,

Would give Corona a beating,

His legion fans,

Gave praise to their

Republican messiah,

And disbelieving Democrats,

Said now he should retire.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind, Detox it will be

And UV.

The theme of the sermon

Was come unto to me;

I’ve heard to my delight,

That COVID can be beaten,

By a very powerful light,

I’ve been advised

That ultraviolet

Is the way to healing,

And injecting disinfectant

Inside is almost a cleaning.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind, Detox it will be

And UV.

Before the watching

Eyes of many,

He spoke a load of shite:

He said that there

Would be a test,

“Sounds Interesting right?”

And billions around the world,

Thought he’d lost his mind,

It seemed like he believed,

He was the saviour of mankind.

Is Donald crazy?

I heard somebody say,

That lockdown will be over,

If his voters

Get their way.

Disinfectant

Manufacturers,

Were eager to explain,

That Lysol isn’t meant to be

Injected in the vain,

And the next day,

Trump attended an

Oval office bill signing,

Sneering at reporters there

And vehemently denying.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind, Detox it will be

And UV.

We’re in a time

When truth and lies

Are endlessly elastic,

And he insisted in the meeting,

He was being “Sarcastic”,

With reporters

Just “Like you”,

When he raised the question,

Of household disinfectant

Being taken by injection.

Is Donald crazy?

Has he gone insane?

In any case,

He’s on the stage

And telling lies again.

Four more years

Of total bullshit

From the one who maunders

Biden is a rival

When you could have

Bernie Saunders.

Donald lives to lie another day

With disciples, running wild,

Canvassing and cheering

For that maniac man-child.

We knew from the start,

Deep down in our hearts,

That Trump and sanity

Are worlds apart,

And the Donald said,

Never mind Detox it will be

And UV.

Autobiography

Autobiography.

I started an autobiography;

A tale of what I as a boy went through,

But by the first paragraph, I could see,

It would be of no interest to you,

Unless you want to hear a sad old fool’s

Reminiscences of reluctant fights,

Nasty teachers, crap secondary schools,

Exam failures, bullies, sleepless nights,

Vandalism, boredom, aggravation,

Suicidal feelings, blood, broken glass

Beatings, bullshit, put downs, hesitation,

And being seen as a pain in the arse,

A frustrated, confused and angry youth;

An everyday kid, to tell you the truth.

Face mask in a ditch

Face mask in a ditch

I saw a mask dropped in a ditch

By a thoughtless son of a bitch,

Or, to be fair, it could’ve been,

The daughter of a drama queen,

The brother of a millionaire,

The sister of a French au pair,

The wife of a chiropodist,

The husband of a physicist,

The grandad of an errant son,

The nanny of a catholic nun,    

The mother of a know-it-all,

The father of a criminal.

I saw a mask that doctors wear,

Dumped seemingly, without a care,

I wonder who the perp could be:

A rail worker on ecstasy?

A vicar with an axe to grind?

A policeman with a twisted mind?

A factory worker running late?

A banker in a frenzied state?

A milkman with a messed up head?

A news reporter, keen to spread? 

A roofer with a wrongful view?

A chef who didn’t think it through?

I saw a piece of PPE,

Discarded very recklessly,

Left by someone feeling vile,

Or maybe living in denial:

It’s really quite beyond my guess,

I’m ruminating, more or less,

But seriously, I have to say,

A person who would act that way,

As things progress from bad to worse

Is adding to the COVID curse,

By dumping stuff that spreads disease,

When public health is on its knees.

Product placement alert

Product placement alert

Linda said, if you want something to do,

Tomorrow, you can always wash the car;

So I did, and it looks as good as new,

And if I was able to play guitar,

I’d write you a ditty; a wondrous song,

To make you dance, feel ecstatic, alive,

And joyful, as you clapped and sang along,

To an ode, that was conceived on my drive,

Upon which is sitting, as you read this,

The shiniest old red car in our street,

But, my dear reader, I would be remiss,

And my number would be missing a beat,

If I failed to include a praise or two,

For Turtle Wax Zip Wax Car Wash shampoo.

Powered by love (or a rhyming paraphrase of a letter, written by Russel Brand, to Boris Johnson.

“Powered by love”

Dear Boris, now that you’re recovering,

I, quite touched when I saw you nearly cry,

Have written a letter, not expecting

At all that I’ll ever get a reply:

When you gave your statement upon discharge,

Seeing your humanity looming large;

Observing your tearful sincerity;

I fancied you had an epiphany,

And wondered, how can a party, led by you,

Ever again talk privatisation,

Rescind funding, without hesitation,

And cut welfare, health and social care too?

The NHS is “Powered by love”, you said;

Will you take then, another path instead?

I genuinely felt, perhaps naïvely,  

You meant what you said when generously,

You praised the nurses, but specifically,

One Portuguese and another, Kiwi,

Then, I wondered, did you, knowing full well,

The Guardian with a story to tell,

Would very happily jump at the chance

To disparage somehow, your Brexit stance;

Did you, knowing as I say, hence decide,

The best thing to do is put on a show

And being explicit, from the get go

Was preferable to being decried;

Pre-empting as it were the front page news,

Of outlets with less sympathetic views?

Also, (though I’m not a cynical man)

When you keep repeating “Our NHS”

It’s like you and Cummings have forged a plan,

To drive home a message you want to press:

Functioning like a synecdoche,

Around a national identity,

The NHS, being a deity,

Entails governmental authority.

In other words, what better way is there

To achieve unassailable power,

Than having a pantheon; a sacred cow

To rally round in a time of despair;

You all the while hence retaining more hold,

Growing in stature, and ever more bold?

Being medically necessary,

The NHS can be used in a way,

That assists power, indefinitely.

I guess what I’m really trying to say

Is, we love the NHS, completely;

It’s like a secular Virgin Mary,

A loving and yet tortured matriarch,

A shadow to an overt patriarch,

That dominates and usually abides:

What else could the NHS ever be

Other than female; a definite, SHE;

Caring while HE tolerates and decides?

Or could it just be my cynicism,    

Competing against my optimism?

So I suppose my point is, publicity;

i.e. the public face of government,

Involves strategy and duplicity;

A truth and information management.

Up until this pandemic, you must know,

Faith in MPs was at an all-time low,

And now, many of us in this present mess,

See opportunities to reassess

Our values, our cares, our priorities,

And one day, some kind of normality 

Will return and our lives again will be,

Determined by the four formalities:

Business, profit, power and control;

Four things that seemingly make up the whole.

 I’m not a cynic, I believe in love,

Optimism, ability to change,

Humanity, goodness, and God above

And being a cynic, for me, is strange.

My prayer to you Boris Johnson is,

When your post demands a return to this:

The four formalities in the last verse,

You’ll recall the names of every nurse,

And also the vulnerability,

The humility that comes with sickness,

And that, on either side of this crisis,

Suffering and fear are a constancy:

A backdrop to many now living here,

Including nurses that we all hold dear.

For the NHS, you, your family

And all of us; I now end this letter

With a prayer, and I say sincerely:

I’m glad you’re better

Boris

Stay better.

Love ********