Monday 24 May 2021

Weather Report

 

Weather report
On a Monday morn in May
Fluffy white clouds turned to grey
Zephyrs fairly pleasant warm
In a flash became a storm
High winds usurped the breeze
Buddings broke away from trees
Pregnant clouds diminished heat
Rain came falling in a sheet
Daylight ever darker dimmed
Potholes deep as craters brimmed
Roads flooded traffic slowed
Drains neglected overflowed
Nearby at a Tesco’s store
With a roof above its door
I stood waiting underneath
As the rain drenched Parsons Heath
Suddenly it went away
Thus came back a sunny day
For at least a brief respite
Clouds once more were fluffy white
And since everybody knows
How the British weather goes
Is there any need to dwell
On that short lived sunny spell?
The dread storm returned prevailed
My creative juices railed
Grasping at a last resort
I typed up this bland report
And before my muse was spent
The council I an email sent
Re the potholes everywhere
And the drains in disrepair

Monday 17 May 2021

Lebensraum

 

Lebensraum pronounced (Pronounced: “Lay behnz rowm”)
Imagine before your family died:
Sleep interrupted by noises outside;
You got out of bed, pulled back the blind,
Saw the bulldozers with soldiers behind,
And, half realising what they were for,
Hearing the pounding of fists on the door,
You quickly donned clothing, down the stairs ran;
Opened the door to a gun wielding man.
When of his reasons, aghast, you enquired,
He answered: your tenancy’s expired;
We’ve come to reclaim your property,
And you must vacate immediately.
They were still sleeping; your wife and young son;
As the dozer drives continued to run;
You motioned the gun wielding man to wait,
Urgently woke them, related their fate
And suddenly found yourselves in the street
Homeless, and desolate, in a heartbeat,
Making your way through a place under fire,
Surrounded by walls, topped with barbed wire;
You walked over rubble and shards all night,
With no provisions or shelter in sight,
Leading your loves, like Virgil through hell,
As bombs exploded and buildings fell.
Imagine the day your family died:
Residences burned, with people inside,
Dust covered toddlers, convulsed with thirst,
Powerlines ceased and water pipes burst.
Dazed, weary and desperate for food,
For hours in want of a morsel you queued,
There wasn’t much anybody could do;
So many parcels couldn’t get through,
You sheltered as bombers flew overhead;
And misguided missiles, mounted the dead,
And would have stayed put, if only you knew,
How swiftly fate would dehumanise you.
You saw not the FLASH, heard not the BANG,
Nor the dread ring, as the death knell rang;
It rendered you deaf, made you see double,
Buried your loved ones under the rubble,
And in the lull of that bombing campaign,
A rescue party recovered in vain,
The broken bodies, bloody and raw,
Of your wife and son, now with you no more.
Before very long, the bombers returned,
Baby bones broken, bloodied, and burned,
Were buried beneath the concrete, glass, wood,
Where hours before, a shanty-town stood.
Imagine now, having somehow survived,
You live in a place where power’s supplied
By those who stole your house and your land
And covet even the space where you stand.
Electricity’s four hours a day;
They took your citizens’ rights away,
Forced your economy to its knees
You’re little much more now than refugees;
There’s hardly any medicine at all,
Clean water isn’t available;
Your stomach’s near empty, your mouth is dry,
And the world, ignoring, turns a blind eye.
Soldiers and bulldozers coming once more;
In the face of a long contested law
Written by those who even this day,
Condemn and denounce, yet still look away.
Imagine before your family died:
You opened your palms kept anger inside;
Peacekeeping now feels like a mistake,
There’s only so much a human can take.
Now wielding a gun or knife in your fist,
Outsiders call you a terrorist,
Blind to your torment and deaf to your voice;
Lebensraum advocates, left you no choice.

Friday 14 May 2021

Deluded

 

 

Deluded

 

History is a malleable thing,

Fair often moulded beyond all recall;

Whether a beggar, queen, pauper or king,

The same rules apply for one and for all:

When writing an autobiography,

If one doesn’t wish to do oneself down,

The glory should outweigh the infamy,

The hero should overshadow the clown,

The journal should brim with sagaciousness;

Amazing quotations, worthy of stone,

Predestined for shareworthy statuses,

Via a tablet, laptop, or smartphone,

And I share these pearls of wisdom because,

The older I get, the better I was.


Monday 10 May 2021

Curry And The Wind

 

Curry and the wind

 

How many beers can a man sink down

Before he can no longer walk?

How many hot chillies can be consumed

With prawns, lamb, chicken or pork?

Yes, and how many leakages can be stopped

By plugging the source with a cork?

 

The answer my friend, is curry and the wind,

The answer is curry and the wind.

 

How many dumps must some people take

Until they need to no more?

How many hours before they’re pain-free,

Relieved and no longer sore?

Yes, and how many times can a liquid run

Before it ceases to pour?

 

The answer my friend, is curry and the wind

The answer is curry and the wind.

 

How many times can a drunk be banned

From restaurants and bars in his town?

How many pans can be pebble dashed

In shades, variations of brown?

Yes, and how many bed sheets will spouses change

Before they desert their old clown?

 

The answer my friend, is curry and the wind

The answer is curry and the wind.

 

Saturday 8 May 2021

Botox

 

Botox 

Cynthia with a syringe

Shot Botox into her minge

Then just for a lark

She streaked in the park

And gave an old todger a twinge

Friday 7 May 2021

A Girl Of Nineteen

 

A Girl Of Nineteen

 

In a French castle’s keep of yesteryear,

Rapists, guarding their prisoner, dwelt,

I fancy ghostly memories here;

Echoes of pain, both given and felt,

Where once a heretic, so deemed to be,

By pro-British triers, spent her last night;

Only an adolescent was she,

Dressed in male clothing, lest the guards might

With unbridled lust and demonic desire,

Commit outrages of sexual incline:

She, for those garments, was put to the fire

By bishops and earls with politick design.

As the flames touched, imagine her pain;

I’ll wager nobody perusing this can:

Posthumously, she was tried again,

Found innocent, and after a span

Of four centuries, they made her saint;

An irony striking me as obscene,

Pondering rulers who showed no restraint,

When burning alive a girl of nineteen.