Wednesday, 15 February 2017

Hate Crime

I wrote this and the rondeau redouble about Hilary Clinton's women's march in the voice of a hysterical lefty, a sort of modern day Rick from 'TheYoung Ones' and his female counter part, in resposnse to two articles in 'The Spectator': this one was about the true nature of the new 'Hate Crime' statistics, by Brendan O Neil, and the other about the hypocrisy of the women marchers by Douglas Murray.  On both occasions I posted the poems as comments on Disqus, beneath the relevant articles, and on both occasions people mistook them as the voice of some real, hysterical lefty.  Strangely they continued to criticise my writing even when I pointed out it was a joke. I had succeeded in doing what I set out to do.  It seems odd that even the last line of this, with the dreadful use of 'enzyme' to fit the ryme scheme wasn't sufficiently awful to show I was just having a bit of fun.





I hate crime, as a matter of course, I hate all crime,
I hate most of all a Hate Crime. One can't comprehend
the mindset of someone who hates all the time.
I can't stand people like them. They intend
to cause hurt, I am sure: they are vile, low life, pond slime.
They may not say aught to offend,
but one feels they are fascists; I'd like to drown them in quicklime.
I hate crime, as a matter of course, I hate all crime,
but Hate Crime is worst, there's no rhyme
or reason behind it, nobody can defend
thieves who hate their victims, ungrateful tapeworms living on chyme.
I hate most of all a Hate Crime, one can't comprehend
the attitude.  I'd be tempted to send
any found guilty of such to the gallows, I'd like to watch them climb
the steps, then see them drop, legs kicking. Bring back hanging, I'll gladly attend!
The mindset of someone, who dedicates his time
to hating others, because they are different, is alien, does not chime
with my way of thinking, at all. I would never spend
a minute meditating on how much I detested others, unlike these vermin, living in grime.
I can't stand people like them, they intend
to cause maximum suffering what with their insults and looks, but we'll get them in the end.
we beat Adolf, remember, and they're just like him. Imagine the joy, sublime
elation, ecstasy, we'll feel, knowing every hater's to be put on trial. And let's extend, 
redefine, include Tory thinking:  since Tories are scum we should digest them with an enzyme,
as a matter of course.

Saturday, 11 February 2017

After Reading A Spectator Review of "Death Of The Poets".

I must consider how I am to die,
If I am to be thought 'one of the greats,'
For though I write with humour, I must try
For fame.  Shall I: end up in dire straits
All riddled with disease that lingers, eats
Away at me from the inside; reach death
By accidental poison which depletes
My haemoglobin so that every breath
Is precious, wonderful; try suicide?
For how else shall my writing be imbued
With deeper meaning, something dark implied
Between the lines? And how shall what is crude
Be e'er transformed so that snort and chortle
Become tears and I become immortal?



Thursday, 9 February 2017

Soliloquy for boosting my self esteem

I am not now, nor have I ever been
A mad old cow.
Be gone dull care, for you little know me.
Indeed, it is my sanity, my real disposition,
Tells me silly things I say
Are not true, are flippant, not worthy of me.
This most average quantity, my share
Of sense, this brain all working normally
Is empirical proof.
Vanity might desire
That I am different, some other thing than most,
But that does not mean that I am a stupid old loony.
What a calm, quiet life I have led,
Have lived through each season
In sympathy. The quality
Of each and every task that I have undertaken
Has not been always the highest,
But that does not mean that I have failed.
As duty shapes my life
There isn't room for arrogance
And yet, I ask, what is this great hatred, disgust?
Self must never be
The central focus
Though by my writing I seem to say so.


Tuesday, 31 January 2017

A Politician Speaks To The Press About His Intention To Monitor 'Fake News'.

I am the arbiter of truth,
I shall not let the coarse, uncouth
Ideas of our age exist.
They won't get past me, so desist,
Toe the line or know my wrath.
No reader needs to be a sleuth,
To question, as he did in youth,
I'll filter all, you'll not resist
The arbiter.
I know it tempts you in your sloth
To write what I say's right.  My tooth
Is sharp, I bite, so do not twist
Your words, but keep a little mist,
Don't probe, write only what will soothe
The arbiter.

Wednesday, 25 January 2017

A Clinton Supporter Decides To Join the Women's March On The Day After Trump's Inauguration

I feel the need for confrontation,
There are fascists almost everywhere.
I mean to go on a demonstration,
I need to show the world I care
About the earth and refugees, I swear
I’ll not let Trump change this nation,
We choose love, not hate, so there!
I feel the need for confrontation
The fascists need an education,
I’ll wear no clothes, just my lacy underwear
And shout about the benefits of globalisation.
There are fascists almost everywhere
But caring women are really rare
Those rust belt bitches deserve eternal damnation,
I mean to be seen in the public square
 I mean to go on a demonstration
Show the world can be a better place, if we use imagination,
Imagine how the world would now be equal and fair
If only Trump had been shot at his inauguration.
I need to show the world I care
I’ll wear a hijab and cover my hair,
I’ll scream  ‘we want lots more immigration’,
I’ll shout the Muslim call to prayer
And demand an end to our country’s isolation;
I feel the need.

Wednesday, 18 January 2017

Think Of The Summer



I sit at the piano
And think of the summer
And strum out a song 
That is based on one phrase,
Which winds its self loosely
Around one idea
But stutters like raindrops
Spilling from gutters
Too full for rhythm,
Not well maintained.
The pedal repeats
Like the slight irritation
In Chopin's sad prelude
One notion sustained.
I think of the summer,
Sweet rocket in flower
And rosa rugosa
And life unrestrained.
But out of the window
The bare trees are dripping,
The grey sky negating
My thoughts as I gaze.

Friday, 13 January 2017

English Country House Dog



The dog knows that I know
That she fell off the bed last night,
Sleepily scratching imagined fleas
So now she takes her repose
In the middle,
Curled up tight,
On top of my tired legs
And when I try to make her move
She begs not to be disturbed and sighs
And her lovely eyes reprove,
And she refuses to budge
Embodying insistence
Even as I nudge with my creaking knees.
She just slumps down firmly on my fat thighs.
You see she blames me
And it's happened before
And like the school mistress she was in her previous existence,
She's not prepared to ignore my bad manners anymore.
Something about the way she harumphs
Suggests that she thinks
That the only way for us to ensure we both get a good sleep,
Is for me to kip on the floor.