Monday, 2 July 2018

I Passed The Devil On The Stairs

The Devil passed me on the stairs, 
As I was coming up them,
He looked down on my childish thoughts,
Decided to corrupt them.
He stopped to talk and blocked my way,
I could not pass, nor could I stem
The flow of strange, polluting words,
He poured and spat like yellow phlegm,
He simply, coarsely had his say. 

He did not seek to be let in,
He did not tempt me with ideas,
This was not Milton’s man,
To pour foul ‘truths’ into my ears
Was this vile creatures plan.
And they were truths, to the extent
They honestly described
The goings on of fellow men,
Unlimited, he spoke to span
The whole range of human sin. 

Now men and agents of the state,
It seems have recently imbibed,
His poison makes them mad, intent,
Fanatical, resolved, hellbent,
On ‘educating’ children then,
Disguising their black deeds as good,
Destroying what has been for years
A pledge, a contract understood.

Monday, 4 June 2018

I Walked Behind An Agéd Tart

I walked behind an agéd tart,
Along a glorious country lane,
I did not see from whence she came,
She just appeared and passed in front,
And neither of us smiled or talked.
Her tired legs set wide apart,
Her gait unbalanced, slightly lame,
She toddled on yet seemed to gain
A deal of ground in not much time,
Her mouth, a gash, also askew,
Was painted in some pale red hue.
Her clothes were polyester, black,
Part see through chiffon at the back,
Perhaps no longer on the game,
Yet somehow she still had the knack,
Of advertising as she walked,
Her former trade, to men of slime -
The pleasures of her withered cunt.

Sunday, 27 May 2018

After The Wedding

The dog, having worn herself out,
In catching toys, thrown by bored boys,
Lies by the front door, 
Exhausted and stiff, as never before,
Half dozing and twitching, detached from reality,
Patiently awaiting the return of normality. 

Wednesday, 9 May 2018

The Chairs For The Wedding

The chairs for the wedding, vary, greatly,
Some stand tall, “serene and stately”,
Ready for some, more grand, occasion,
Firm of joint, and sound of rail, 
Their polish sparkling, like their conversation,
Too loud, beside their country cousins,
Slightly wormed, and rather frail,
Trying to mingle, look the part,
Beside the well used, everyday dozens,
Clean and neat and sound of seat,
Straight forward, useful, stout of heart. 

Some are split about the splat,
With no desire to stand and chat
And others, lumpy round the springs,
Make conversation based on things,
Competing to impress their fellows,
Regency, in golds and yellows,
Rosewood dense and strong, unyielding
Imagining the power they’re wielding
Arises from some greater merit
Than their ash made peers inherit
Forgetting ash made Piers’s plough
And fired the arrows from Robin’s bow.

Thursday, 5 April 2018

On Tony Benn’s Five Questions

Speak plainly, say what power you have got?
And next tell where you got it from? Be clear,
You act as if you prize your power a lot,
And yet you barely ever seem sincere.
And in whose interests do you use it most?
Your own, we all suspect, but do reply,
Though don’t say for man’s good, you should not boast
In such vague terms, for we’ll find out your lie. 
And say to whom you are accountable?
You act as if accountable to none,
Leave havoc, problems insurmountable,
Insoluble, behind you when you’ve gone
To try out mad ideas in pastures new,
So last, say how we might get rid of you?

Friday, 16 March 2018

“We are fast approaching the stage of the ultimate inversion: the stage where the government is free to do anything it pleases, while the citizens may act only by permission; which is the stage of the darkest periods of human history, the stage of rule by brute force.“

On A Quotation From Ayn Rand

We’re almost living in that age,
Approaching now the final stage
Of ultimate inversion, when
Permission is required by men,
From government, who’ve placed a cage
About them.  How will they assuage
Their guilt, speak out and thus engage
In bolst’ring freedom’s cause, again?
Almost living,
Caged, can we measure, gauge
The distance left, can any sage
Predict the time, when in the pen
The bolt will drop?  And God, what then?
Too late to cry and scream and rage:

Almost living.

Let England Not Forget Her Precedence Of Teaching Nations How To Live”. (John Milton)

It seems as if we did forget
Our precedence, it seems so, yet
There’s time ahead, to make amends
To show true freedom to our friends.
Our politicians, soaking wet,
And weak as water might still bet
On licence winning, but the threat
To free men, free speech, always ends
It seems
In greater liberty.  The debt
We owe the past, the blood and sweat
Of men who died for freedom tends
To drive us, and pays dividends:
This fight’s not one we e’er regret,

It seems.