Tag Archives: satire

RUBBLE

RUBBLE

my poem
lies under rubble

dead, asphyxiated
would be on
life support

but
there is no life
is no support

my poem
is getting
amputated

will lose a whole page
has already
lost
    stanza
after stanza

without antibioticd
without anaesthetic

each line screams
as they cut
through
bone

you will have forgotten
these words
and the mass graves
of those
that have
spoken them

as you stare into the sunset
across the Mediterranean
from
    your beautiful
seafront property

looking out towards Greece
the rubble
          of great Troy

and the gods
       of Homer’s world

SHOOT

SHOOT

shoot
what moves

you can wash
your mouth out later

top
up again, be carefree

who cares what
you did, what you said

still out there
got stuck somewhere

but maybe
water not strong enough
need to
liberally swish with
concentrated acid

something stronger
than any dream juice
than you could
possibly imagine

take you head off before
full rewire

SIMPLY PUT

SIMPLY PUT

am here
for my brain
wash

get a new, shiny
gloss

am so excited
about the process

feel so
out of synch
with the world
        today

everybody
thinking
  another way

so hard to
      adapt if
short on
cynicism
      lacking
stupidity

am here
  for my brainwash

things
    from here
on in

going to
simply improve

FARM STORY

FARM STORY I am all farmed out Tick tock me here on your doomsday clock on the farm you will see I need my tik I need my beautiful tribe of B to get me atomic golden shower of abracadabra (hashtag Hasbara) help me to isolate myself stand against every creature, every animal calls itself humanity doesn’t rwconize tgd beauty of a bunker buster pure cluster bomb (failing which there is always the nuke in the cupboard) but this just the beginning every true alpha needing its omega its sky raining gamma needed to sort out everything unspeakable that crawls yes my dear saviours in your sanctified flavours need to demonize every farm imsect out here every stick of farm produce every evil land mime of flower only B’s Heavenly true propaganda hits the spot righf spit can correct my poor eyes attune to the power show things as really are.

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