Burning the Flag

Burning the Flag

Laurence is burning the Pride flag today;

Same as he always does, this time of year;

In his back garden, all smiley and gay;

As in cheery, or merry; to be clear:

I emphasise that in case he reads this,

And prosecutes me for taking the piss;

(Which would be very ironic indeed,

What with him being in desperate need

Of funds for his ruinous legal fees,

Having crowdfunded a fiver; no more;

His brief looks to leave him exceedingly poor,

Defending his numerous “Not guilty” pleas,

In view of past libellous misdemeanours

Ending with Laurence dragged to the cleaners.

What is it with so-called proud- patriots;

For all their lamenting, the trash they preach,

Or roar with like-minded compatriots,

Wanting things banned, in the name of “Free-speech”?

Do they really think we’re under attack

And can’t even fly the Union Jack,

Through fear of arrest: could it really be,

They take Stuart Lee’s joke seriously?

Believing what they hear on GB News

Read in The Mail, The Sun, The Express?

Do they wish to suppress expression, dress,

In line with their anti-transgender views?

British, proud, fearless, yet threatened by pride;

Are they denying their feminine side?

I found a picture on Google of Fox

In an itsy bitsy teenie weenie

Not yellow but blue, (with no polka dots

And presumably borrowed) bikini.

There’s a caption underneath explaining

His reasons; evidently complaining

About women being told what, or what

Not to wear, by MPs, or some such rot,

As meaningful as a dribble of snot,

Along with a trademark phobic comment,

Obviously written with biased intent,

He being racist (though he says he’s not);

And I couldn’t help thinking to myself:

Is Laurence unwittingly outing himself?

Which led me to further wonder: what would

Happen if Tommy Robinson posted

An account of his inner womanhood

On X? Would he be vilified, roasted,

For wearing a dress of Stone Island make?

Or would his legions, following suit, take

To wearing the same, and be led like sheep

To the cenotaph, by Little Bo Peep,

On Remembrance day, all the while waving

A flag of their choice and not getting nicked;

No one being shouted at, punched or kicked?

That would be something really worth saving:

Unlike the bigots of their high regard

Burning Pride flags, acting manly and hard.

Deflection

Deflection

Powers of unfit disposition

Cherry-pick texts from religion

Pass laws bringing pain

Self-affluent gain

Eliminate all opposition

And set us against one another

Deflected by fear of the other

Whilst their algorithm

Results in a schism

From which we may never recover

On tablet/phone keyboards we type

Opinions of similar stripe

Or argue the toss

Hot bothered and cross

With platitudes commonly tripe

Each doubling down on opinions

We throwaway billons nay TRILLIONS

Of riches to those

Whose wealth daily grows

Are we then no more than mere minions?

If only we had the ability

To shut up and join in civility

Collectively see

These powers that be

Thrive on the want of humility

Ray

Ray (For fantastic teachers everywhere)

My book of Mayfield memories,

Is full of faces blank,

Tyrannical teachers, bullies,

Old desks and classrooms rank;

Mainly forgotten, or at least,

Their ill effects have all but ceased;

And, to be bluntly frank:

From an objective point of view;

I admit: sometimes, I bullied too.

Be that as it may; I rarely

If ever, dwell on it;

My school years were fairly, squarely,

Typical of the shit

Endorsed by the establishment,

Back when corporal punishment

Was legally, deemed fit

For teachers fond of dishing pain,

Via ruler, slipper, or cane.

Mr Collins, a breath of air;

An antidote to doom,

Wearing Joe Ninety’s, and threadbare

Cord, breezed into the gloom

Of the atmosphere, where we sat,

Quietly, waiting; and, just like that,

The mood in the classroom

Changed to something approaching cool,

On my first day at Mayfield school.

His countenance, as I recall,

Was round (but not too much);

Neither especially tall

Nor short; he was a touch

Thinning on top, comb-over style;

He had a winning, friendly smile,

His manner being such

As to emit a warming glow;

And I liked him from the get-go.

He taught English, drama and lit;

And consequently they,

Before long, were my favourite

Subjects suffice to say;

Although in fairness, metal-work, French,

Science or maths, would have been a wrench

Whatever; come what may;

I was hardly academic,

And metal work made me feel sick.

Mr Collins would improvise;

On the odd occasion,

He’d give us leave to exercise

Our imagination;

I felt, as I ad-libbed a farce,

One time, in front of all the class,

I’d found my vocation!

(And even now I can’t resist

Being an exhibitionist).

He read the Hobbit, and we laughed

At his bad mimicry,

Making the characters sound daft;

Gollum especially.

Through Mr Collin’s eyes I saw

Beauty I’d never known before;

He sparked a fire in me;

And then he left!

The fire turned cold,

And I lost heart,

At twelve years old.

But,

Like Aragorn, he returned;

Some years later, by which

Time, this candle had long since burned;

All yearnings in the ditch;

At fourteen, I was well moulded,

Beaten into shape, and scolded;

A scared kid, with a twitch,

Primed for yet another two years,

Towing/writing lines, with his peers.

I failed all my exams, bar one:

An O level, grade C

In English; and that being done,

I entered the factory

Where I winged it, not quite unskilled,

Writer’s ambitions unfulfilled,

Barring the poetry,

Written between button pushing,

When the foreman wasn’t looking.

Mr Collins, was a light ray,

And a key to a door,

Open enough for me to say,

Now I’m working no more:

If not for you, I maybe would

Have been more skilled, earning a good

Crust, but inwardly: poor,

Vexed, closed-minded, resigned to fate;

Not in the zone, (albeit late);

Cheers for unlocking,

You’re a star mate.

The Culture of Are

The culture of Are

Government, trade, and media, controlled

By corporations funding war;

Services, infrastructure sold,

Majority populations poor,

Waves of asylum seekers flood

The minds of the readers of racist crud,

Populist views of refugees,

Spew from the maws of Labour MPs.

What’s the fucking point in voting now?

All we get is corporation greed,

Nourished by the things that people need,

Traded for weapons by pigs in power,

While the poor celebrate St George’s day;

The hooligan culture of Are holds sway.

Underfunded dwellers, deflected implore,

“This is Are country, this is Are land”,

Reformers say there’s a two tier law;

The wilfully stupid don’t understand:

Fascists propagate, spread hate, manipulate,

Blame and make claims of when things were great,

Back when the capitalists were cruel

Workhouses full, poor orphans ate gruel,

Grew up to face machine gunfire;

And the decedents of the returned,

Remembered, then forgot the lesson learned,

Pledged allegiance to yet another liar:

“This is Are country”, patriots say;

“Three cheers for Nigel, HIP HIP HOORAY!”

Could this be the end of which Jim sang?

The doors of deception are open wide;

Does the human race deserve a big bang,

For letting corporations override

The expert advice on climate change,

And the probability of nukes long range,

Fired by an angry bearer of the brunt

Of a trade-war, instigated by a cunt?

I know there’s no God but that don’t stop

Me praying for a mass-epiphany

Whereupon eight billion people see,

This planet is run by a very closed shop

Of elitists living in ivory towers:

Get educated, make the future OURS!

Open your minds before it’s too late;

Reality doesn’t care, and won’t wait.

One Life

One Life

I wish to reflect upon as I die,

My enjoyment of touch, hearing, seeing,

And knowledge enough to identify,

As a living breathing human being,

Who loved and was loved, in spite of myself;

My genes, flesh and blood will still be there,

Hopefully prospering, all in good health,

When I'm infinitely less than thin air;

Like those yesterday, tomorrow, today,

Born in a very wrong time and wrong place,

To breathe but one breath and be blown away,

Into that senseless, unknowable space;

And if one life is all anyone gets,

Theirs are the tears of all our regrets.

I see Trans People and Muslims (or Brainwashed Mod)

I see Trans People and Muslims (or Brainwashed Mod)

I asked an acquaintance, “What do you see

In the Mail and on GB News every day?”

“I see trans-people and Muslims” said he;

“That’s why I’m voting for Reform UK.”

I said, “Reform want lower taxation

For billionaire brokers who live overseas,

Reaping the wealth of privatisation,

Hedge betting and market monopolies."

He, double-downing, declared, “I don’t care;

We’re not allowed to be English and proud,

There aint a Union Jack anywhere,

The wokes and lefties, are getting too loud,

And you can’t post stuff on X anymore,

Cos they’ve banned free speech and there’s two tier law;

And besides," my interlocutor said;

“The politics of envy don’t work mate;

They’ll just leave and live somewhere else instead."

I then inquired of his views on the state

Of our services and utilities,

To which he responded: “If we spent less

On benefits for so-called refugees

And scroungers, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

He ranted, brooking neither ifs nor buts;

Nullifying my counter suggestion

Pertaining to austerity and cuts,

Which he felt were barely worth a mention,

Beyond blaming it on lefties, in spite

Of fourteen years governance by the right.

Rant over; he donned a target skid-lid,

And scooted off on a chrome Lambretta,

Very much looking like his father did,

Before he got older and knew better;

Leaving me at the roadside, reflecting

On the irony of nostalgia being

The way forward in the unsuspecting

Minds of majority voters, seeing

Only trans-people and Muslims as the cause

Of the erosion of our infrastructure,

While right-wing recipients of applause

Get elected; furthering the rupture,

Always with yet more scapegoats in mind;

Reform being kings, in the eyes of the blind.

Transpotting

Transpotting

What’s with the author of Harry Potter?

Her transphobic tweets cause many distress;

why does she choose to be a TERF rotter?

Is it the moral panic that’s got her

parroting prejudice, spread by the press?

What’s with the author of Harry Potter?

Will she feel safer with a transpotter

in a public place, where women undress?

Why does she choose to be a TERF rotter?

Is she in league with the fascist trotter,

trampling on trans people in the US?

What’s with the author of Harry Potter?

The war on equality’s getting hotter:

kindness, compassion, is evermore less;

Why does she choose to be a TERF rotter?

It makes me feel sad, for while I’m not a

fan of her work, I admired her success:

what’s with the author of Harry Potter?

Why does she choose to be a TERF rotter?