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?

Steer Clear

Steer-Clear (For Lola)

When I was younger, around middle age,

I entered a kind of spiritual stage,

Perused The New Testament, every page,

Considered the Christian position,

Thumbed the Quran, read many a surah,

Skimmed through the Gita, mulled over Buddha,

Tried meditation, struggled with yoga,

Lost interest, gave up on religion;

And dwelled in the hellscape of rants and rhymes,

Mostly concerning political crimes;

All the more so in these turbulent times;

Being angry is our constitution;

But on contemplating the posturing,

I asked myself, why am I bothering,

With all this hollering; quarrelling,

Amounting to mere noise-pollution?

Dear Lola, steer-clear of religions,

Left, middle, right-wing, politicians;

Be wary of media technicians;

Their platforms are more than they seem,

Whilst we are like lambs to the slaughter,

And many a demagogue supporter,

Will beckon you to poisonous water,

And urge you to drink from the stream.

Atypical Villanelle

Atypical Villanelle

This villanelle is atypical;

I’m presently mentally, physically, sick

of being politically lyrical,

and as boringly predictable,

as a pony with a singular trick;

this villanelle is atypical;

an attempt at being uncynical;

a breakaway, if you will, from the tic

of being politically lyrical;

and while it may be neither mystical,

romantic, nor especially slick,

this villanelle is atypical;

decidedly apolitical,

a nineteen line ramble, minus the kick

of being politically lyrical;

no left, right, middle, no ridicule;

of blue, red, yellow, not even a lick!

this villanelle is atypical,

of being politically lyrical.

Gabby Andy the Right-Wing Cab Driver

Gabby Andy the Right-Wing Cab Driver

Gabby Andy the Right-Wing Cab Driver

I once took a taxi to Weatherspoon’s,

For a pint of draught vintage dry cider;

And met a yea-sayer of Brexit boons;

Gabby Andy, the right-wing cab driver.

Braving the potholes that blight our estate,

(And indeed are a plague on the nation),

Unprompted, he told me, “Britain was great,

Before wokeness and mass-immigration”.

“I’m not a racist”, he loudly proclaimed,

And I inwardly judged him a liar;

Your bigoted views are deeply ingrained,

Gabby Andy, you right-wing cab driver.

He lavished praise on MP, Rupert Lowe;

“A patriot and gentleman with flare”;

Omitting or mayhap, he didn’t know,

Of Lowe’s interests in private healthcare.

The policies of UKIP and Reform UK,

Will raise health costs higher and higher;

More than a working class racist could pay,

Gabby Andy, you right-wing cab driver.

We arrived, and I, by way of goodnight,

Said, “I’d rather be woke than a wanker”!

Upon which he spat a barrage of spite,

And expletives decidedly ranker:

“The culture of woke is Marxist”, said he,

With a spittle of rancid saliva;

How more brainwashed, could he possibly be?

Gabby Andy, the right-wing cab driver.

And though this scenario never occurred;

Sadly many a YouTube subscriber,

Listens and hangs on the man’s every word;

Gabby Andy, the right-wing cab driver.

Coming Out as a Straight Ally

 Coming Out as a Straight Ally

“Ally: A person who supports and respects sexual diversity, acts accordingly to challenge homophobic and heterosexist remarks and behaviors, and is willing to explore and understand these forms of bias within themselves. Often describes a heterosexual individual who is nevertheless part of the LGBTQ community”.

In the seventies, we lived with the fear,

Of being labelled a bender or queer,

When even the bullies wore platform shoes

Dressed like androgynous metal gurus,

Had unisex hairstyles, streaked with red dye,

Loved Bowie when Bowie was openly bi;

Though none but the bravest then would’ve cried,

“I’m proud to be in alliance with Pride.”

Back when the alpha-males guarded the grounds,

The hares either hid or ran with the hounds,

And I being neither, yet still all the same,

Hung out with the pack, in search of fair-game;

Such being the same as it ever was

For wilfully ignorant mobs of yobs;

Of which I was part, I have to confess:

Those tough alpha-males I lived to impress,

More Tommy than Tom, of the same surname;

Tom was an activist worthy of fame,

Knocking at closets, till the locks gave way;

The anthem “(Sing if you’re) Glad to be Gay”,

Was a rallying to hares far-and-wide:

“Come out; stand proud, in alliance with Pride!”

Then came a time of misinformation,

Fear, moral panic, intimidation,

Scare-mongering, stigmatisation,

And yet even more discrimination,

AIDS was the “Gay plague” the tabloids declared,

A junkie one too, if needles were shared,

And whilst it was never out rightly said,

The “Punishment” narrative rapidly spread;

Nigh only the Terrence Higgins Trust

Raised issues rarely, if ever discussed,

And it must have been a decade at least

Before the storm calmed (though never quite ceased);

By which time I was a father of two

With an anti-racist socialist worldview:

And in my children, today I see,

The antithesis of what I used to be,

Before I dismissed the bigot inside;

Am I now proud, in alliance with pride?

What does it mean to be a straight ally?

If I looked a trans person in the eye

And pledged undying solidarity,

Would they believe in my sincerity?

Again, I ask, what does it mean; am I really

How my lesbian best friend sees me?

Do I respect sexual diversity,

And support it unconditionally?

And as for the narrative anti queer;

Will I act accordingly, making clear

My opposition, when I hear or witness

Remarks or behaviour, heterosexist,

Homophobic, or transphobic; and what’s more:

Am I able and willing to explore

And understand these forms of biases

Within myself: a heterosexual cis

Man in his sixties, whose past bigotry

Has been laid bare for everyone to see?

Did I type “Straight ally” in Google search?

I did indeed, and upon my research,

It appears I tick every box; so yes:

I’m a straight ally; nothing more nor less,

And if the old the bigot has somehow survived,

His life-support system long cut-off, denied,

He’s less than the ghost he’d be, had he died:

I’m proud to be in alliance with Pride.

Forgive Them Not

Forgive Them Not

Republican former vice-president, Pence,

Signs missiles fired at war-refugee tents;

Biden endorses it, Harris does too;

Forgive them not Lord, they know what they do.

Musk does a blatantly Nazi salute,

Bannon, concluding a rant, follows suit,

Milei, at CPAC, hands Musk a chainsaw;

He raises it, roaring a metaphor:

“Bureaucracy”, yells the trillionaire hog;

Child-cancer funding thus deemed a mere log;

Sycophants cheering; he cuts his way through;

Forgive them not Lord, they know what they do.

Two old dictators make plans for Ukraine,

(Hitler and Stalin all over again?),

War-mongers everywhere gain a green light,

To vent their ambition, envy and spite.

Land occupiers make mockery of law,

Murder civilians; claim a “Just” war,

Cleanse a whole nation, deny human rights;

All with a God-promised land in their sights;

The stateless they robbed won’t be allowed near!

Can anyone not see the irony here?

Donald Trump; Benjamin Netanyahu;

Forgive them not Lord, they know what they do.

Truss’s economy wrecked the UK:

Thirty plus billion she wasted away;

She should be locked up in jail you might say,

Not living the high-life on taxes we pay;

We’re a “Failed state”, so the lettuce declares,

Claiming a government like Tony Blair’s

Is “Socialist”; and “Woke” is to blame;

Omitting the cuts she backed without shame.

Hundreds of thousands austerity killed,

While offshore accounts were callously filled.

Musk aims to maximise suffering now;

Who but a madman would give him such power?

Deluded Conservatives pledge fealty

To oligarchs, living off misery;

I say as an atheist through and through:

Forgive them not Lord; they know what they do.

Las Gaza

 Las Gaza

A pair of old criminals conspired,

To take over land they desired,

Where corpses unclaimed,

‘Neath rubble remained,

And weaponry ceaselessly fired.

Proclaiming a God-ordained mission,

Co land-grabbers bombed with precision,

And with His consent,

Vast billions was spent

Financing a mutual ambition.

Finally there came a cessation,

And after a short conversation,

The gangsters declared,

A deal roundly squared,

Displacing as such, a whole nation.

Now, under their jurisdiction,

Enabled by archaic fiction,

A clear up’s commenced

The land’s being cleansed,

And powerless, we watch

The eviction.

The Crat

The Crat (For Barney)

Dave, my old friend, had for years been away,

Caricaturing in Europe somewhere;

And on returning, he’d no place to stay,

No money, no food, no clean underwear.

The DHSS told him, when he applied,

“Come back in three months”, denying his claim;

As such, he was homeless; sleeping outside,

With only a bag of soiled clothes to his name.

Reclining his head on that pillow, he lay,

Underneath salvaged damp cardboard each night;

Passing the time in the library by day,

Catching sleep, stolen by winter with spite;

And as for eating, though he never said,

I’d hazard to guess: he begged for his bread.

Be that as it may; a charity gave

Him a sleeping bag, with kindly intent,

Though a tent would’ve been better, said Dave;

No matter; that night, to the farm he went,

Where lately, he’d taken to sleeping up close

To a cowshed, from which heating flowed free;

Enough to take the edge off winter’s blows;

A Godsend, at least to one such as he.

Snuggled-up-tight, and on the point of sleep,

He dreamily observed a cat, close by,

Cautiously approaching, as if to peep

At the heap that looked to be warm and dry,

And which Dave was more than happy to share

With a cat, as a child would a Teddy Bear.

I wish I could say he befriended the cat,

But alas, that would be mere fantasy;

The cat was more like a very LARGE rat!

A rodent wild beast, in reality…

…But as for what Dave was forced to endure,

I’ll leave it to your imagination;

Urging you on to the caricature

Of a hybrid of rat and cat persuasion,

Surprising a lonely destitute soul,

Like a jump-scare, in a horror-film scene;

If only the creature could have been whole;

A cat, not a rat, nor something between:

Companionship is a mutual need,

Albeit doomed to remain unfulfilled;

More equally mutual, fear takes the lead,

The caricature heads back to the field,

And the human, in want of a cuddle,

Gathers his things and leaves in a muddle.

The Ghost of Clacton

The Ghost of Clacton

The ghost of Clacton, much revered,

Disappeared and reappeared;

And how the little people cheered;

In hope he would remain.

Then in a flash he made a dash,

To crash the presidential bash;

All over Donald like a rash,

He looked to be again.

But Musk had tweeted in-between

And made a scene, since last he’d been,

Hence Donald, now no longer keen,

(Indeed if he was ever),

Dismissed as toast, the doting ghost,

(Whom he, the host, still loved the most,

Or so the ghost was wont to boast),

And left him to the weather.

The ghost, in spite of wounded pride,

Took all in stride and sat outside,

Alongside Tories, each denied

A coveted invitation.

He then withdrew, and back he flew

To where they threw a hero’s due,

And after but a day or two,

He set off on vacation.

(an acrostic)

(an acrostic)

E very so-often, a figure appears,

L arger than life, egotistical,

O utrageously wealthy, full of ideas,

N arcissistic; a very influential,

M agnetic, ambitious, charismatic,

U niter of masses, appealer of pride,

S ower of doubt; a ruthless, enigmatic,

K nower of kings and emperors worldwide.

I ntellectuals, morons, rich and poor

S ucked into believing every utterance,

A ttend rallies and cheer, with evermore

N ationalistic fervour, wilful ignorance,

A dmiration, and even religious

Z ealotry; fuelled by a superstitious

I ntolerance t’ward the non-indigenous.

C ometh these dictators, we live and die

U nder the cosh, and after they’ve gone say,

N ever again, as the ghosts of soldiers sigh;

T urning in their graves on Remembrance Day.

KISS

KISS

KISS played a gig at Wembley Arena,

Back when it was called The Empire Pool,

And when ticket fees were fairer, leaner,

London pub prices more affordable,

And train-travel, cheaper beyond recall;

Though tonight Rob drove, whilst we in the back,

Opened and drank a Special-Brew six-pack.

Upon arrival, I being quite pissed,

Rob parked his van; I don’t remember where;

We walked past a pub I couldn’t resist,

Steve and I had a few bevvies in there,

And after we left, I didn’t much care

One way or the other, whether I saw

KISS or not, I just wanted to drink more.

We staggered and swayed along Wembley way,

Found an offy; Jack Daniels I bought,

And throwing the empty bottle away,

Entered the Pool with my drunken escort;

Made an American angry, distraught;

I asked him how far he’d flown to get here,

Having knocked over his overpriced beer.

Somehow we made it to the highest tiers,

And caught the tail end of Bon Jovi’s set,

The songs of which meant nothing to my ears,

Nor the band, who I’d never heard of as yet,

Still playing as I, struggling to get

To the bar, stumbled and fell like a clown

Into the stewards, who sat me back down.

KISS came on playing minus the face-paint,

(Not a song; I mean they weren’t wearing any),

And we, both deciding: KISS fans we aint,

Asked of ourselves simultaneously:

“Who the fuck are KISS”? left ‘em to the many,

Made a sharp-exit, got paralytic,

And sat at the kerbside frankly pathetic.

They found us in the brotherly embrace

Of partners in drink, tight as Siamese twins;

I must have crashed out, but in any case,

Next thing I recall is the rubbish bins

Outside my flat, and beyond that

…More tins,

More bottles, more pubs, more nights on the piss,

But NEVER regret, for not seeing KISS.