Tag Archives: class

INSANE RAIN

INSANE RAIN

Insane rain
insane of itself, in itself,
and in its capacity
to drive
us all insane

so this is it
this climate change
you claim is false science
you claim
is overrated

what was hitherto desert
a little more of this
well on it’s way
to mangrove, rain forest

and here, with
devastating predictability,
it is here again
raining on
all and sundry
Monday
to Sunday

raineth on
the faithful, raineth
of atheists too

pouring down on Protestants
down on Catholics too

drenching, drowning,
the hapless,
       forcing the sheltered
to count their blessings,

talk
    to God Himself about it
talk to
the highest Papal appointee
will take your call

Nature
     taking a savage turn
thanks to
our interference

yes those
       who survive, remain
bone dry

know that at least
though screwed up
terminately, definitely,
entirely

at least
respects our sacred
truths of wealth and class.

CLASSY

CLASSY

this poem
too classy for you

then put on your
tailcoat and spats
go total J
Alfred

rising (for Christ’s
sake) to
the occasion

how that other resurrection
god laughed when
I told him how
she had
classified me

as white liberal poet
(the white
of her petticoat
itself
   somewhat showing)

insisting on an audience
and that Greek god of flowers
rolling in the aisles

is this what
she called you, this your
bestowed appellation

my little mortal
chaos monster

my faithful
blood drinking accolyte

got you so wrong
my head seems to want
to dislocate
   fly off at a
tangent

bringing the stars
down with me

crashing the server

my death
    adding to your poem
making it
a classic

bringing a volcanic beauty
to this stale drab night

as he whose
      words both doomed
and destined to prevail

stirs the cocktail
      from a safe distance

a more ferocious catalyst
yet to be born,
    we have yet to see

A CLUEDO (HAVEN’T GOT)

A CLUEDO (HAVEN’T GOT)

deduced it in no
time

saw it clearly it was
either Plum that went
shapeshifter
      eliding, gliding
between
the kitchen (pots
still greasy)
               and the games room

turning up at the table
through
     the fourth wall

or could be
Mustard, that die-
hard Imperialist with the
old Western front Vickers
water
     -cooled machine gun

defending the pantry against
whatever
       latest horde of savages

took out Ms Scarlett  and
Ms White

ebony and ivory in
their delightful negligees

wandering aimless into
his line of sight
             in persuance of
their tryst

or Green could have done it
C of E but some old Catholicism
at root there

         adding a twist of hemlock
to that holy wine
(cardinal
   not working out, we’ll
smoke that
one out
               bring in another)

or someone in the garage
with rolls royce style
handy wrench

           call murder murder
a spade a spade

a wrench a bloody brain-
fragment spattered wrench

and me
    with my candle card yet again

with
such bad eyesight
     cannot make out a thing