Waxy Lemon

Waxy-Lemon

Tommy Robinson’s Golden shred

Braverman Sue Ellen

Conservatively spooned and spread

On Stephen’s waxy lemon

Stephen came with citrus spurting

Double-cream on top

And Sue upon his Jiff done squirting

Savoured every drop

No Armistice on Armistice Day

No Armistice on Armistice Day

In line with the wishes of Yaxley-Lennon,

coupled with the encouragement of Braverman;

an army, comprising a hard-core membership

of The Democratic Football Lads Alliance,

will be in London, on Armistice Day,

lest Churchill’s statue, and The Cenotaph

be desecrated; as was The Cenotaph

in Rochdale, which yielded Yaxley-Lennon

a further excuse to use Armistice Day

in the same manner as Braverman;

thus rallying those such as the alliance

of football lads, whose membership,

will team up with the membership

of the EDL, at both the Cenotaph

and Churchill’s statue, forming an alliance,

under the stewardship of Yaxley Lennon,

he, himself under the influence of Braverman,

who’d failed to prevent an Armistice Day

protest, demanding no less than an armistice day,

in Gaza; and whether her party membership

opposes it or not; she, Braverman,

has politicised the protest, the Cenotaph,

and Churchill’s statue; giving Yaxley-Lennon

and The Democratic Football Lads Alliance

licence to pummel the police-supported alliance

of those marching for an armistice day,

for babies whom patriots, like Yaxley-Lennon,

Farage and the DFLA membership

deem less important than The Cenotaph,

and Churchill's statue, as too, does Braverman,

the very same home-secretary; Braverman

suggesting peace marchers are an alliance

of hatemongers, out to desecrate the Cenotaph;

their call for an armistice on Armistice Day

necessitating the presence of the membership

of the DFLA, and Yaxley-Lennon,

at The Cenotaph, on Armistice Day,

while she, Braverman, forges an alliance,

between the ERG membership and Yaxley Lennon.

All reactions:

1Tom

I'd rather be Woke than a Wanker

 I’d rather be Woke than a Wanker

In remembrance of Thatcher

Conservatives each year

Praise the old milk-snatcher

They very much revere

Mail readers highly rank her

Do they think I should too?

I’d rather be woke than a wanker

I’m never voting blue

I’d rather be woke than a wanker

Don’t build a statue please

She demonised

And privatised

Our public industries

I really don’t want to thank her

Feel free to bend your knees

But the North’s still poor

In spite of your

Rose-tinted memories

A lettuce-faced prime minister

Upon resigning spoke

Demonised the sinister

And left-wing cult of woke

The policies that sank her

Are totally insane

I’d rather be woke than a wanker

With a Truss-infected brain

I’d rather be woke than a wanker

The billionaires won’t share

They’ll raid the pots

Buy bigger yachts

And leave the country bare

If you’re not an investment banker

Or a hedge fund billionaire

And still want cuts

You’re either nuts

Or simply not aware

Ex populist party leaders

Employed by GB News

Are currently newsreaders

With very partial views

Could they be any blanker?

I wouldn’t risk a bet

I’d rather be woke than a wanker

With a tightly closed mind-set

I’d rather be woke than a wanker

Especially since Fox said

We’re cultists

And anti-Brits

Mainstream media led

Ridiculous-far-right-rancour

Has like a virus spread

The fear of woke

Makes people choke

Turns faces gammon-red

I’d rather be woke than a wanker

Whatever woke may be

Stonewall

Don’t bother me at all

And nor does CRT

A GB or Fox News Anchor

Might beg to disagree

But I don't care

Please be aware

You’re not my cup of tea

DBAC

DBAC

When we were little boys, younger than three,

Our mother would sing us a lullaby;

A slumberous solemn philosophy;

And closing our eyes, we'd drift with a sigh,

Into the forest of nod, by and by,

Where a chorus of all our cuddly toys,

Joined in with a most melodious noise:

CH

Be seen and not heard, but don’t be a cunt;

To adults and betters, listen take heed;

When spoken to, speak, with never a grunt;

Don’t grab all the things you want but don’t need;

Try on occasion to do a good deed,

And when you’re queuing, no pushing in front;

Remember your manners; don’t be a cunt.

We brothers were schooled in different ways:

I, due to failing the eleven plus,

Was secondarily taught in Goodmayes,

Arriving each day by not the same bus,

As he, the more scholarly one of us,

And the pupil of a school in Gants Hill;

A grammar whose name, I’ll not here reveal.

School names aside: upon reaching sixteen,

We took the first steps on our long careers;

I’d soon be working on a machine,

Whilst he’d be banking, and over the years,

Our father’s sage words would ring our ears:

Worldly advice, to be held in good stead,

On the path of life, and here’s what he said:

CH

Be honest, work hard, and don’t be a cunt,

By passing the buck, to hide a mistake;

While shying away from bearing the brunt,

Be seen to be keen, and don’t ever break

The company rules, or else you might make

An easy target, upon a witch-hunt,

By sticking your neck out; don’t be a cunt.

All this and much more, we twin siblings heard,

From father, before our first day at work;

His pearls, punctuated, by the C word,

Were as flying tips, to a fledgling bird;

The novice machinist and young bank clerk;

Founts of new knowledge with no wisdom spared,

Entered their workstations amply prepared.

And all too soon, I reluctantly found,

Some of the things father said, to be sure,

Were not especially helpful or sound;

More than a couple I chose to ignore:

Mistakes I hid, and the rule book I saw,

As something to flout more often than not,

(Though hard work, at first, I gave a fair shot).

And over the years, I learned many ways

To foil directors and bosses inclined,

To lessen our rights, and lengthen our days,

With company shares and profit in mind,

Though little reward for our daily grind,

And, when the time came, life- lessons I passed,

Down to my children, without being asked:

CHS

Be thoughtful and kind, but don’t be a cunt;

Engage with your noddle before you speak,

And if I abruptly respond with a grunt,

It’s likely because I’ve had a bad week;

Work can be sometimes decidedly bleak;

A total pain in the arse, to be blunt;

Feel free to say to me: don’t be a cunt.

And on the subject of “Don’t be a cunt”:

Beware of the likes, of Trump, and Farage,

They are, to your intellect, an affront,

Embraced by the presently far too large,

And wilfully ignorant entourage

Of a populist publicity stunt,

Funded by billionaires; don’t be a cunt.

And whether or not they bore it in mind,

My kids are, successful, thoughtful and kind.

Boy with Hand Grenade

Boy with Hand Grenade (inspired by Diane Arbus and Colin Wood)

One long ago warm Saturday in spring,

I was with my daughter, in the playpark,

Pushing her up in the air in a swing,

When in a heartbeat, while she was mid-arc,

I noticed a boy, from fair faraway,

Coming directly toward me, I knew;

(Though how I knew it, I really can’t say),

It seemed he wanted to talk to me too;

Angrily, frantically, faster he came,

And no more than ten feet from where I stood,

He stopped dead, staring, and I, to my shame,

Reacted as maybe a rabbit would,

On being momentarily ensnared

By a driver’s headlights: frozen and scared.

Unwittingly, I memorised his face:

Dark eyes wide open, wide mouth shuttered tight;

He wore dungaree like shorts, held in place,

By one strap, pulled up high over a white

Short sleeve shirt, patterned by what looked to be

Black oval shapes; his thin limbs, protruding

From these briefly described garments, made me

Think of a puppet on wires, alluding

To Pinocchio, but his vacant stare

And blond hair, furthered thoughts of a cuckoo

From Midwich; an other-worldly nightmare

Child, escaped from the lab. All this flashed through

My brain in a millisecond second, no more,

As I looked at his claw-like hands, and saw…

In the left one: nothing, other than air,

In the right one: an actual hand grenade!

And this being spotted; everything there:

Swings, daughter, trees, grass, and sky, seemed to fade

And disappear, leaving me and the boy

Standing on opposite sides of the fence,

In the midst of a grey, black, and white void;

Desolate and unbearably intense.

We connected telepathically:

“Is she your daughter?” he asked in my head

Childishly and psychedelically.

I answered him not, asking him instead:

“Where are your parents? Are they with you here?”

And he angrily shouted, loud and clear:

“THEY’VE GONE AWAY!” then he held up the pin

Of the pineapple bomb, triumphantly,

Regarding me with a reasonless grin

Of intention made clear, abundantly.

He lobbed the grenade, and I, as it flew

Over the fence and into the playpark,

Saw the grass turn green and the sky light blue,

As the swing returned, completing the arc.

In a heartbeat, she was back in the air,

My baby daughter, squealing with joy,

As backwards and forwards she swung, and there

Wasn’t a trace of the hand grenade boy,

Wandering the grey, somewhere in my mind,

With colourless trees and people, behind

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Active

Rhyme

Rhyme

They say a poem doesn’t need to rhyme;

I guess they’re right; I see it quite often.

But would it die after quite a short time

If tongues it couldn’t tickle or soften?

A rhymeless poem’s not easy to write;

Understood by few; by many, not read.

It’s an icy coffin, a silent night;

(Stars being millions of phrases not said).

A rhyming poem requires no scheming;

As an epidural gives painless birth;

Rhyme gives rubbish a kind of redeeming;

A labour-less stanza of little worth;

Rhyming can make of nonsense common sense

And turn doggerel into pounds and pence.

Joy

Joy

A wealthy successful and worried man,

Attended a private consultancy,

Heard the results of an MRI scan,

Drove to his opulent occupancy,

Lounged with his wife in the luxury spa,

Where he and she reminisced, reflected,

Joyously chorused, “How lucky we are”,

And his senses, profoundly affected,

Were enhanced by an intense clarity,

Allowing him to hear and see the true,

Beauty of all things in reality,

And it was if he already knew

This reality, before he forgot,

He'd forget again, more likely than not.

Scarredforlife

Scarredforlife

A glass distorted my features one day;

Reflecting a living kaleidoscope;

A visage in patches, melting away,

Like Dorian Gray, in sulphuric soap.

My face, cut-up, not with a surgeon’s knife,

Was haphazardly stitched back together,

Leaving me distorted and scarred for life;

Burdened by a past, that lasts forever;

And while the future accommodates change;

The scars remain a constant reminder;

Timelines I can’t rewire nor rearrange,

Yet often retrace, if only to find,

Pathways, leading to the back of my mind.

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