Thursday, 26 October 2017

Scented

Who saw blood and thought of the lily flower,
Not of The Fall, but of some heavenly bower?
Who thought a sweet perfume,
Pervading all the room,
Drawing everyone's attention
To the fact of one's menstruation,
A desirable state of affairs?
And who decided the smell should linger,
Long beyond the bleeding days,
So that opening ones knicker draw
Searching for something lacy, racy,
In celebration of ovulation,
Full of the joys of being alive,
Forgetting one's cares,
One should be hit, once more,
By that manufactured aroma
Absorbed into every space between atoms,
As thoroughly as the old, brown-black blood had been drawn
Into the fragrant sanitary towel?
Who decided that we wished to be reminded
Of that gross combination- 
One's body's rejection
Of an old egg, almost as old as one's own conception,
Shed, with bits of endometrium, in a state of putrefaction;
And some poor imitation 
Channel Number 5?


Wednesday, 18 October 2017

The Greatest Pleasure

What other pleasure, sweet and rare,
Can an Englishman honestly compare
To the sight of a fellow of 'liberal' facade,
In arrogance, hoist by his own petard.

Monday, 18 September 2017

Parson's Green

Parson's Green

There is nothing left to say, we are inured.
An I.E.D has partly done its thing,
Created mayhem, fear,
Caused stampede, crush, herd panicking.
We know the suspect, almost feel bored
By speculation as to his intent,
Spend more time pondering the fraud
That is the station's name, as we lament
The pastoral England which it represents,
A piece of it, still here, a token thing,
Beloved because a token of the past,
Is still acceptable, so long as no one mentions it,
So long as all nostalgia is stamped out,
Subsumed, encased in grey cement,
And now trampled by the terrified horde.
The horde who,  oft as not, cheered on the new,
Rejecting history, and all we knew,
In favour of a fresh trajectory,
Not realising the hypocrisy
Involved in seeking to impose their modern world view:
Pretending to equalise and to reject
Judgementalism and the moral code,
Has just the opposite effect,
It sets alight
A twisted will to power, of the bitter few.


Thursday, 27 July 2017

Justine Greening's Favourite Teacher.

"Give me a child for seven years
And I shall give you the man"
Give me a boy to fill with ideas
And I will give you a woman.
For the child is the father of the man,
But I shall reduce him, each day, to tears
And teach him to be the mother instead, as far as I possibly can.
Give me a child for seven years
And I'll fill up his mind with irrational fears
Discredit his instincts, and laugh and jeer at every masculine plan.
Give me a girl, let her live among queers,
And I shall give you the man.
She'll be butch, she'll be hard, and her learning will span
The sphere of the self, for other spheres
Might bring her in contact with old fashioned views, as one finds in the Bible or in the Quran.
Give me a boy to fill with ideas
And I'll teach him how we must never allow others to see us
As others see us, but control the narrative, always scan
The subtext for 'hate', in each conversation with his peers.
And I will give you the 'woman'
Who deals with flames with a fan
Who burns with a fury, resents the careers
Of those who mature as men. Give me Peter Pan
I'll give you Wendy, and s/he'll never follow the course that nature steers:
Give me a child.

Monday, 12 June 2017

How It Really Is.

To 'love one's neighbour as oneself', requires
One first to love oneself, so one might know
What sort of thing love is, yet it transpires
One is not lovable. One cannot show
One's neighbour love therefore, and so instead
One settles for a paltry substitute -
One stops just short of wishing he were dead.
Since, if he were, one could not institute
One's little squabbles over trivia
And breathe them into fiery campaigns 
And elevate them to quadrivia -
Important subjects, which he then disdains,
Refuses to address, but out of spite,
Pretends that at some future time he might.

Tuesday, 30 May 2017

The Time Before And The Time Afterwards



In the time before, there was May, in bloom,
Parts of April, parts of June, 
As if a wand had been waved over a canvas, 
Seventeenth century, Flemish, 
Turning burnt umber background to lapis lazuli sky,
Tulips, lilacs, roses in suburban gardens,
Lawns with daisies strewn.
In the time before there was love and irritation,
There was 'do your homework, tidy your room'.
There were your clothes folded neatly,
Which you would wear again,
Little worries about your education.
There were photographs that did not make me cry,
Of you, in blue checked romper suit,
Golden curls, apple cheeks, laughing eyes, not camera shy.
In the time afterwards there is May,
Whose beauty I will never love again.
There will be June and the thought of your not seeing it,
Other people's children pouring out of school,
And your not being amongst them,
And the great tight pain in my chest as I try
And fail
To stop this sob becoming
One great primeval wail.



Wednesday, 10 May 2017

2 am

The cat has no conception
Of the crime 'cultural appropriation',
He's howling and shouting as if he's Siamese.
Stalking the long corridor,
In my direction,
Testing acoustics he has tested before,
Caring nothing for my disapprobation,
His worms need feeding and he can't cope with his fleas.