Man Flu

Man Flu

Arthur coughed and sneezed all night,

Not at all to Dawn’s delight;

Come the morn she rose in spite

Of never having slept,

Brought him breakfast on a tray,

Flushed his Kleenexes away

Left him there to sleep all day,

Cantankerous well kept.

Tired and uncomplaining, she

Worked a shift from six till three;

And after, automatically,

Shopped for milk and bread,

Drowsy still and slightly ill,

Popped a cough and cold pill,

Poured a gin prepared a meal,

For him upstairs in bed;

And upon that spirit downed,

She ascended bedroom bound;

From within came not a sound;

Had he been deceiving?

Wake up Arthur please she cried;

Though his were open wide,

He was lying on his side,

Cold and stiff not breathing.

At the inquest she was told:

Arthur, having caught her cold,

Something grim had taken hold,

Alpha male exclusive:

Dawn from the inheritance,

With a friend at great expense,

Took a well-earned recompense,

In Baros all inclusive.

Death Cult

Death Cult (a sestina)

There’s a death-cult occupying my mind;

a congregation of doomsday optimists,

eternally hopeful of a nuclear

chain-reaction, linked to the apocalypse,

whereupon they wish to bear witness

to a riot of mushroom clouds, prior to dying,

fully freed from the fear of dying;

a condition achieved by the hive mind

of the cult, in line with being witness

to events long ignored by optimists

and deniers of the apocalypse,

brought about by hubristic nuclear

powers, embarking on a nuclear

arms race, at the cost of frameworks dying

on the altar of the apocalypse,

at the behest of an out of his mind

felon, empowered by evangelist optimists,

and the want of a credible witness,

or, at the very least, a witness,

unafraid of metaphorical nuclear

fallout and evangelist optimists;

not to mention the risk of dying

from a shot, guaranteed to blow their mind,

fired by a biblical apocalypse

fanatic, whose view of the apocalypse,

they themselves are hoping to witness,

differs from that of the cult in my mind,

inasmuch as whether it's nuclear

or not is of no consequence, when dying,

according to the evangelist optimists,

is but the beginning, for optimists

with faith enough to know: the apocalypse

heralds the resurrection of the dying,

and the rapture, on which all will witness

an event dwarfing all others, nuclear

or elsewise, at least for those with Christ in mind;

whilst fear of dying, prompts a wish to witness

the end of such optimists, via an atheist apocalypse,

spectacularly nuclear, in cultists occupying my mind.

Bus Wanker

Bus Wanker

Driving is overly stressful these days:

Everywhere speed and traffic-light cams,

Pothole plagued A roads, and motorways;

Pile up related delays, traffic-jams,

Deserted roadworks; inevitable

Detours down country lanes, dangerously dark

And light years away from residential

Streets with barely anywhere to park;

The constant cost of tyres - offside and near

Refitted from only a week ago,

Not to mention the tracking - front and rear,

Realigned, following a costly tow,

Courtesy of torrential rain

And a caved-in, neglected, blocked, storm drain.

Upon the crossing of a bridge too far,

And subsequent fine for paying late,

I gave up on driving, and sold the car;

Arriving as such at a happy estate,

With no insurance, repairs, MOTs,

Or fines, not least for encroaching the lanes

I frequent for fair, affordable fees,

Oblivious to potholes, neglected drains

And cameras, such as mentioned before;

And if the journey takes longer, who cares?

I’m able to read or watch YouTube more;

My only concern’s an increase in fares;

I’m a bus wanker, when all’s said done;

And car trouble free; I’m glad to be one.

Commoners like us (an acrostic)

Commoners like us (an acrostic)

Theology strives to solve religion,

Rocket fire furiously falls from the sky,

Utopian dreams, are a fool’s mission;

Monsters maim millions, school children die,

Pummelled by patriot missiles misaimed;

Accidents happen, the offender shrugs;

Naturally terrorists will be blamed;

Doubtless the lies will be swallowed by mugs.

Never again, again, and again:

Ever get the feeling you’re being cheated?

The reels are rolling, the theatres remain,

All the old films are being repeated.

“Never again”, wrote Meir Kahane,

(Yitzhak Lamdan coined that phrase).

Archaic laws in biblical vein,

Herald in make believe Halcyon days,

Unlawful settlers, occupation,

Aided and abetted, often by

Rightist elites, of fascist persuasion:

Epstein associates, easy to buy;

Callous, filthy-rich, paedophile

Rapist, self-entitled, feckless

Idiots photographed and kept on file:

Multiple heirs, in states of undress,

Invested in power and wealth creation;

Narcissists, basking in immunity,

Allied with leaders of a rogue nation,

Lying and killing with impunity;

Silencing critics via default

Accusations of prejudice;

Naysaying every truthful report,

Decrying their murderous recklessness.

Gone is international law

Ensuring advances in view of world peace;

Nuclear arms threaten once more,

Oligarch wealth is on the increase,

Crimes against humankind’s normalised,

Industrial prisons are amply built,

Demagogues, rarely criticised,

Answer to no one, despite their guilt;

Like mafia bosses, Dons by name;

Monetary rule’s the name of their game;

Arrogant arseholes united are they;

Nourished by greed, impervious to shame;

Insatiable beasts; and we are their prey.

All but obliviously lost at sea,

Commoners like us, one day will be

Sharing a dinghy, literally.

Take Down the Flags, Hang Flowers Instead

Take Down the Flags, Hang Flowers Instead

Early one morning, in my dressing gown,

I, having opened the curtains, espied

A Union Jack, hanging upside down,

Atop the disused old lamppost outside;

And later that day, I saw many more,

Hanging from nigh every post in the street;

I strolled on, perplexed: what were they all for?

A celebration of Windsor’s elite?

A final I’d missed, that England had won?

Impossible news, of a Brexit deal,

Highly beneficial to everyone?

Or an armed forces memorial drill,

In remembrance, announced by a bugle?

Ours is a garrison town after all.

Or, was it a foolish interpretation

Of patriotism: a misguided

Zealousness, fuelled by misinformation,

Nostalgia, prejudice, lopsided

Media, gullibility, frustration;

A magnate manufactured culture war;

A celebration of tax evasion,

Greed, billionaires, the broken rule of law;

Repeated use of the adjective, “GREAT”

Applied to a past that was anything but,

When wealthy landowners governed the state,

Purses were jealously guardedly shut,

To your GREAT GREAT grandfathers and mothers;

Their sons and daughters, sisters and brothers?

Pondering this, a ladder I ascended,

Cut the ties; and the “Made in China” flag,

Crowning the obsolete post, descended,

Landing beside a council black bin-bag

And some plastic flowers, that, for all I knew,

Could have been made in the same factory

Yet, being prettier than red white and blue,

Beautiful even, comparatively,

I hung them and made a statement that day,

With a view to, maybe starting a trend,

And after the colours were thrown away,

I hoped that mine had been left till the end,

If only to sow a seed in your head:

Take down the flags, hang flowers instead.

If Souls Were Fish (For Whom it May Concern)

If Souls Were Fish (or, To Whom it May Concern)

If souls were fish, yours would be a minnow,

Residing in a waste infested lake;

Or, a paedocypris, in a slow-

-Flowing, brown stream of raw-sewage outbreak.

If hearts were sand, yours would be a particle

Far smaller than a quark; impossible,

To view, through all but the most powerful

Lens; and even then, barely visible.

If minds were spheres, yours would be a highly

Toxic, orange gas giant, more poisonous

Than sulfur mustard and reliably

Likely to wipe-out every one of us.

If life was a dream, yours would trump those

Of all the scapegoats, living guardedly,

In a world where prejudice daily grows,

Along with division and disharmony.

(It Feels Like) I'm Losing the Human Race

(It Feels Like)I’m Losing the Human Race

It feels like I’m losing the human race;

Struggling each day to keep up with the pace;

Inwardly hearing, “Nice guys finish last”,

I disagree with that voice from past:

Vitriolic, vexed, not especially nice,

And sceptically cynical of advice,

I’m a first world problem researcher at best,

Prone to wrong answers and failing the test.

Modern technology’s over my head,

(Though nightly I read a Kindle in bed);

Banking on the internet’s not for me;

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

And whatever cryptocurrency is,

Along with AI, I’d give it a miss

If it wasn’t for the job stealing bot

On the bank helpline, more often than not.

Alexa: where are all the high street shops?

How come the Amazon van never stops

Long enough for me to answer the door?

Could it be the boss, chasing evermore

Growth, at the cost of working conditions,

Pensions, and permanent job positions?

How long will it be before AI replaces

White collars, suits, commuters, briefcases?

And why is everything so expensive?

Full time employees, struggling to live

Has been normalised, so it seems to me,

Regardless of high or low GDP;

Alexa: what are the benefits of wealth

If not taxed for housing, services, health?

And why’s the worlds’ richest man such a twat?

“I’M NOT QUITE SURE HOW TO HELP YOU WITH THAT”.

She puts out the light, upon my request;

I lie abed, reading non-fictional text;

It’s a book about a dystopian

Nightmare, or maybe a Utopian

Heaven, depending on your point of view;

But whether too bad or good to be true,

I wake up, with the Kindle on my face;

It feels like I’m losing the human race.