Let’s Have a War

January 16, 2020
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“Let’s have a war!”, Israel says
“We haven’t had a war for a while.”
Arms manufacturers are rubbing their hands
And Trump sits there with that smile
But you can’t really tell if it’s cogs in his brain
Or may the wind in his gut
So people can’t tell if he’s really insane
Or the cell in his brain is caput.

“Let’s have a war!”, Netanyahu says
“We haven’t had a war for a while
And we’re getting full up with US subsidies
I’m embarrassed the size of this monetary pile
So let’s have a war, it’s what all fascists do,
Whether Johnson or Putin or Trump
Syria’s wasted but the blood that we’ve tasted
Will only add prime to the pump.”

“Let’s have a war!”, says the Reaper
“We havent had war for a while.
North Korea has gone for a sleeper
And Arabs have gone down the Nile.
We need to kill many more people
Quakes, famine, fire and flood
Aren’t ridding us of enough sheeple
So world war three would be quite good.”

“Let’s have a war!”, says testosterone.
“We havent had war for a while.
Women who keep having babies
Support unsustainable – lifestyle.
There’s millions of children of single-mum cuties
Whose dads (Boris Johnson is one)
Irresponsibly abandon their paternal duties
Cos fuckers just wanna have fun.

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Unsocial Medium

January 1, 2020
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down there there’s flies thrumming

I don’t go there when they crop up

beyond maturity and withered reason

their squashed fruits sunken

with liquid decomposition

verbal recoil stabs the cup down hard

coffee escapes, dribbling a charcoal stain

flees through cracked plastic

shamed plastic once comforting

joins our sins, my eyes break out

scared vehicles whizzing

clockwork occupants

hugged thoughts clinging

to unsound importances

as the aether casts disapproval

midlife wonky-eye woman speaks

“You don’t see news like you used to,

blown along like crumpled tumbleweed.”

shuffling past, she festers over what was,

eventually joining the condition

the dripping stops suddenly

it’s a trick missed by ears

but absent ripples catch the eye

scraping pieces of unsavoury truth

out of toenail clippings

flies still agitate, thrumming,

like an ancient washing machine

furthering its career as a sex therapist

between the twittering lines

remaking faces from soundless pixels

thousands of hatched spiders

their threads woven to connect

draw us to separate webs

our bodies wrapped parcels

sucked dry into squashed fruits

Posted in Reviews

The PM and the Banker

November 13, 2019
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The MP and the banker were walking close at hand

They wept in happiness to see the systems work so grand

If this were messed about, they said, we’d cream it, if we planned.

If seven lords and seven profs studied it half a year

Do you suppose,’ the PM said, ‘They’d render it unclear?’

‘I’ll work it out,’ the banker said, and had another beer.

‘O voters, come and vote for us!’ the PM did beseech.

A pleasant talk, a voting slip, and you can hear my speech

We’ll start with all the smarter ones to indoctrinate – er – teach.

The eldest voter looked at him, but never said a word:

The eldest voter eyed him up as if he were absurd

Meaning he’d fallen for that one, and thought he was a turd

Four Middle-Englanders rushed up, all eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, their shoes were clean and neat —

And this was odd – they’d little cash to buy them on the street!

Four other voters followed them, and yet another four;

And thick and fast they came, (they read the Mail and Times, galore)

All hopping through the metal chairs and scrambling ‘cross the floor.

The PM and the banker span their web an hour or so,

Then stopped for wine and canapés (allowed expense – you know?)

And all the little voters stood and went without, below.

“The time has come,” the banker said, “for quantitative easing

You thought life would be easier, well… we were only teasing

It’s difficult, but pigs with wings won’t fly without some squeezing.”

“A second home,” the PM said, “is what we chiefly need:

Jobs for nobs and nepotism – very good indeed —

And somebody must pay for all this undisputed greed.”

“But please not us!” the voters cried, turning a little blue.

“After we gave you power, that’s a dismal thing to do!”

“The cash is mine,” the banker said. “But I’ll loan it back to you.

It was so kind of you to vote, and you are very nice!”

And the PM said nothing but “Cut us in on your price:

We’ll drop the rich’s tax to five percent, will that suffice?”

“It seems a shame,” the PM said, “to play them such a trick,

After we’ve tempted them with lies, and made them look so thick!”

The banker didn’t say a word but “Don’t be such a prick!”

“I weep for you,” the PM said: “It’s not because we won,

But rioting, protesting and striking is no fun

So bear with us, we’re doing what we knew when we begun.

We’re removing the disabled and the immigrants, (good riddance)

And keeping wages low so poor people get a pittance

This country will then work for us privileged, rich, white Britons.”

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Over the Renée Bow

October 3, 2019
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I was fed up

with the face

of Renée Zellweger

lying on my settee

gazing up at me

with that look


I was fed up 

with the painted smile,

forearm by her thigh,

one knee raised

creating a red fold

in the satin dress

I was fed up

with the plunging neckline

diving in a crossover

revealing a finger-width

skinfold of breast

tauntingly hidden

I was fed up

with the tresses of hair

cascading with questions

requests to reach out

and slide a gentle hand

from nape to nipple

I was fed up and,

lacking a chainsaw,

took out my scissors 

inflicted a long cut

removed completely

the front page 

of Saga Magazine

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Stratum Corneum

June 12, 2019
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dander lies a soft
blanket of allergens
shed from our skins
as we rub pumice
against each other’s
heads and feet

rosy sores, tender
shine our own pains
and theirs
as twittering derides
humiliating carelessness
leading blindly through
crowding juggernauts 

I have screamed
at a silent screen of woes
I have winced, groaned
scratched at my impotence
I have flooded saltwater
into an abject marketplace

now we stamp
torn ligaments
grazed bare feet
onto hot coals
of rent discourse
wallow in enveloping torture
listening for a heartbeat
hearing only avarice

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June 2, 2019
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the waters raged
huge mountains
rise from slopping
to slapping to hurling
crashing breasts

self-satisfied I poured
gentle fragrant oils
to damp down to quell
but oils can burn
you cannot swim

an inferno
I blanketed
cut off oxygen
drew it back
from the smoulders

detergent-drenched it
the waters are calm now
but a slick floats
a gooey emulsion
licked to the pot’s edge

torrent subsided
but don’t drink
skim it first
purify the surface
the undercurrent too

make it seem clean
fresh and clear
as if nothing died
as if eyelids weren’t singed
nothing to see here

examine the rim closely
where a tide mark persists
debris from the collision
two hurricanes in a teacup
bitter and not sweet

Posted in Reviews

The Swamp King

March 14, 2019
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‪Trump is so bloated‬
‪with delusive notions‬
‪of ripping off his clothes‬
‪in a telephone box‬
‪outside the Daily Planet‬
‪emerging a superhero‬
‪and with X-ray vision‬
‪leaping tall nations‬
‪in a single bound‬
‪so bloated that he‬
‪no longer sees his feet‬
‪in box shoes‬
‪that leak,‬
‪his clay feet‬
‪dissolving inexorably‬
‪sinking in his own swamp.‬
‪Too late he will realise,‬
‪when his belly rests‬
‪on alligators.‬

Posted in Reviews

Badly Mistaken Men

September 7, 2018
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I’ve seen that darkness
in the eyes
of badly mistaken men,
sadly often.
Heard some say
it’s a holiday camp –
their own room
and a telly, rent free!

But for many it’s
give us this day
our daily dread,
jumping to orders,
permission and keys,
permission and keys,

and the slamming of doors
strictly timetabled,
under a thumb.
And at night
it’s a coffin.

Rule 43 man carefully tucks away
a pair of scissors under the skin
of his belly – the Wing Officer said –
secretly shoves it inside himself.
Could have had a life
if someone had cared more.

Saved from himself,
the pain of what he did
to his victim
hurts too much
for living to mean more
than being dead
and his body torments
with exquisite searing torture.

Of course there are bad men
very bad, gruesome and mean.
So many more didn’t choose
to be broken and miserable
desire to be mended men
with better futures
trade in their season ticket
in the stand
with the badly mistaken men
where they once belonged.

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A Miscarriage of Government

June 2, 2018
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Brexit means Brexit Theresa May warned
The vote has been cast and the papers suborned
By a big London bus into reprinting lies
About NHS millions per day. No surprise
That it turns out to be all a con, all a hoax
That’s intended to reach into hearts and to coax
Us with spurious offers that cannot be met
By minority government intent to forget
As it DUPes us to think that it knows what it’s doin’
Remain means remain, and Brexit means ruin
And all of the years we have wasted on this
Vile debacle we’ll see is a bucket of piss.

Posted in Reviews

The Sensible Voter

May 30, 2018
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A voter took a stroll through the deep, dark wood
A Maybot saw the voter and it looked good
“Where are you going to, little dim voter?
Come and have a ride in my austerity motor”

“That’s very kind, Maybot, but no, you see
I’m going to have tea with a Corbynee.”
“A Corbynee? What’s a Corbynee?”
“He has terrible Marx and terrorist links
And terrible Abbotts in his terrible kinks.”
“And where does he live?”
“Down by the coast. And his favourite meal is Maybot on toast.”
“Maybot on toast! I’m off!” Maybot said,
And she ran, avoiding taxes, to her number ten bed.

On walked the voter through the deep, dark wood
A Faragump saw it and thought it looked good.
“Where are you going to, voter?” said he.
“In my soup it’s lovely up my Eurogum tree.”

“That’s very kind of you, Faragump but, see
I’m off to see a Corbynee for scones and tea.”
“A Corbynee? What’s a Corbynee?”
“He has IRAy eyes, his tongue licks Hamas asses
He has red coloured prickles on his NHS glasses.”
“Where does he live?”
“In a pond by a stump
And his favourite meal is grilled Faragump.”
“Grilled Faragump! I’m off!” said he
And off he did Brexit up his Eurogum tree.

On walked the voter through the deep, dark wood
A Blario saw it and thought it looked good.
“Where are you going to, voter?” he stomped,
“It’s going down a bomb back in my Middle East swamp.”

“That’s very kind of you, Blario but, see
I’m off to see a Corbynee for gefilte fish tea.”
“A Corbynee? What’s a Corbynee?”
“He has two left legs and a nationalised rail
And Russian spy poison at the end of his tail.”
“Where does he live?”
“Round by that thicket,
And his favourite meal is Blario Benedicket.”
“Blario Benedicket! I’m going for a romp!”
And off he bombed to his Middle East swamp.

On walked the voter through the deep, dark wood
The voter saw a green nut and the green nut looked good.



(With apologies to Julia Donaldson)

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