Saturday, 17 December 2016

Observations While Sitting In The Farmyard, During a Late December Riding Lesson


Clip clopping,
Cobs walk across concrete,
Sounding like an imitation
Of cobs walking across concrete-
Clashing coconut shells,
A nags long face protrudes above a stable door,
Looking like every horse
Who looked out before,
Like Mr Ed,
Whinnying, tossing his head.
Also: brown cows in stalls,
Country smells,
Empty pens,
Piles of old straw,
A rusty bike,
Ground thick with mud and manure,
Puddles of pale sky on the ground,
Snow white hens
Scratching round -
Clean, pristine, finding grain on the stable floor,
A silver tabby trots dressage like,
Lifting high each precious paw.
Two people stand,
Chatting, as water from the hose falls,
Beside a fittingly filthy fork lift truck,
Their Yorkshire voices swear at each verse end
Without a care,
Turning the air
A different shade of blue,
For no particular reason,
Just because they do,
Just because they don't give a fuck,
The habitual use of the obscene
Adds spice to banter, otherwise bland,
Between an old farm hand
And a young friend
With an orange face, smeared in foundation,
As thick as the muck in the yard,
And eyebrows, after the style of Cara Delevigne,
As out of place
On the local face
As the bags on the bales,
Shiny, thick, black polythene.
There's a slight sense of the season,
But it's not cold,
The ground's not hard,
There are no mangers to be seen,
Though much hay,
Something in the last light of the day,
Describes endless ends of term
And walking home, happy,
After the nativity play.
And here's the file of horses coming back,
Grey, bay, dun, piebald, black,
Plodding now, 'the weary way',
After the hack.
Stopping.





Friday, 25 November 2016

Fake News, Post Truth Rondeau



"Let's listen to the fake news, Dear,
Put Radio Four on, so we'll hear
Post truth, disguised as real fact
These so called experts can't half act.
One falls for each bizarre idea
These scoundrels sound so damned sincere,
That for my sanity I fear,
Until, with rude words and no tact,
The fake news
Gets You shouting back." Don't revere
The News, just question, get things clear.
And when it sounds like balls, react:
Write in, complain, hope they'll be sacked,
These frauds who would bring to your ear
The fake news.

Tuesday, 22 November 2016

Quantum Particles Of Soul

All those quantum bits of soul
That float about within the room,
Seem attracted to my brain,
And I am filled with others' thoughts,
Specks of trouble, doubt and gloom.
When darkness falls I feel old pain.

Perhaps they're really scraps of prayer
Fragments rent from their one whole
Because they were transmitted, sent 
When distress left minds in torment
Flashing signals in despair,
Aware they could not alter doom.

Perhaps I am a good receiver
As I'm not a true believer
Perhaps they settle in my mind
As particles of debris meant
To teach me I must have a care.

And yet I always wish to find
Some means to comfort, though I'm blind
And needs must grope towards the light,
Scraping at each built up layer
To find some truth in dark, black night.

Perhaps absorbing is sufficient
Perhaps once anchored, made secure,
I should not feel I must do more,
Should cease to strive to be efficient
Should be content merely to store
And let these atoms, reminiscent
Of man's sadness through all ages
Rest in peace, my head their tomb.








Wednesday, 28 September 2016

A Kind Of Mantra For An Old Friend To Recite When She Feels The Urge To Join In With Her 'Close Knit' Community

All men are islands, other folk are hell!
Leave me be, I do not like mankind.
I only wish in solitude to dwell
Alone with my own intelligent mind.
Don't try and involve me, or you might find
I'm better than you at doing things which you do well
And you wouldn't want to feel you were getting left behind.
All men are islands, other folk are hell!
And you are just a shit, I've not lost my sense of smell!
This clod has washed away, it is not inclined
To be part of the main; it was when you put the boot in that it fell.
Leave me alone, I do not like mankind.
I have no desire to be mingled, intertwined.
I am Sufficient of myself and my reasoned thoughts can quell
Any efforts of yours to leave me feeling undermined.
I only wish in solitude to dwell.
And nothing you can say or do will ever impel
Me to join your crowd of carping fools, all blind
To faults of their own. I intend to spend a spell
Alone with my own intelligent mind.
You don' belong to me, there are no ties that bind.
I owe you absolutely nothing, I shall stay inside my shell.
I am a bitter lemon, so do not remove my rind,
And do not venture near me lest I yell
"All men are islands!"

(rondeau redouble)

Friday, 2 September 2016

Paranoia: Something Went Wrong With This Page

Something went wrong with this page
So we decided to reload it.
You were reading something right wing, 
Some populist thing in a tabloid.
Something went wrong, you felt rage,
You thought criminal thoughts and imploded.
So we snatched away the cause,
Gave you a chance to avoid it,
Gave you a moment to pause,
Just to take a breath, count up to ten,
Collect your thoughts and remember 
There's no place for hate this September
Of 2016, on the web.
We gave you time to consider 
And to stop thinking like a pleb.
Something went wrong with this page,
Well not with this page per se,
But with your choice, your wanting to read it.
We think you were lead astray.
But you won't let it happen again.



Sunday, 14 August 2016

A Response To A Report Into Electoral Fraud in Ethnic Communities.

Don't judge!  It was the atmosphere that did it.
The Electoral Commission's not a racist institution.
I am not a racist, and that's to my credit.
We are only really guilty of a kind of abdication.
Ethnic communities don't need re-education, 
Respecting democracy's not a thing you can inherit,
So we decided there'd be no investigation.
Don't judge! It was the atmosphere that did it.
Cultural Marxism has much theoretical merit.
We only wanted reality to fit the dream, we used imagination.
Never the stick, only ever the carrot,
The Electoral Commission's not a racist institution.
It can't be helped that cheating's a temptation.
"All shall seem well", as someone once put it.
We only turned a blind eye, that's our mitigation.
I'm not a racist and that's to my credit.
There was no paper evidence, and I didn't shred it.
If we'd come down hard we'd have caused riot, revolution.
We weren't corrupt ourselves, where corruption occurred, we simply hid it.
We are only guilty of a kind of abdication,
All in the interests of harmonisation.
We always meant well, people often said it,
Everything we did was with the best intention.
There are cultural differences in the places crooks inhabit.
Don't judge.



Thursday, 28 July 2016

A Prayer In Memory of Father Jacques Hamel, murdered by IS While Saying Mass.


May the peace of the Lord be with you;
May the calm warmth of a July morning in church remain 
Always this sense of love, the love of an old priest for his fellow men. Let it renew,
A thousand fold, the stock of love, so we regain
Our sense of trust in each other, and the pain
And suffering and loss shall not obscure our view
Of hope.  Let us mark each hour in our minds with the refrain:
May the peace of the Lord be with you!
And give thanks for it in all the quiet moments of our lives. Let true
Wisdom and mercy govern our reactions, let us remember each grain
Of love produces a miraculous yield. The bad are but the few.
May the calm warmth of a July morning in church remain
In your heart and mind as the scent of a sweet flower when strain
And fear seem to overwhelm, may you find the clear, blue
Light of a summer day beyond the clouds and may it contain
Always this sense of love, the love of an old priest for his fellow men. Let it renew
Your spirit so that you go forth into the world with that tranquility he knew,
Born of faith and trust.  Let not contempt, disdain,
For those who dwell in blackness guide. For we must increase, in all that we do
A thousand fold, the stock of love, so we regain
Our sense of trust in each other: let him not have died in vain.
Let the pastoral peace of psalms and hymns be the warmth that lifts the settled dew
Of sorrow from your saddened soul, may the path of life be a summer lane
Ending in a quiet church wherein that balm of stillness is, which violence shall subdue:
The peace of the Lord.

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

The Women

They came from shortlists, well designed,
To fill the House with just their kind,
The lesbians with butch, cropped hair,
The Tory ladies dressed with care,
The deeply spoken, and the squeaky,
They came from Ramsgate and Auld Reekie,
Harridans and cold, hard bores,
With steely eyes, pugnacious jaws.
Their politics were much the same
They thought alike, shared every aim,
They crowded round the centre ground
And dished out dull, bland bites of sound,
Their minds were empty, speeches hollow,
Ambition led, ideas could follow,
And yet they rarely ever did.

And they would never make a bid
In favour of less government
Because they were a regiment
Of bossy sisters who loved rules
And took the demos for dumb fools.
They spat at liberty and swore 
To do away with common law,
Because they did not understand
The history of our ancient land
And thought a web of regulation
Would much enhance this once great nation.
They didn't know that less was more
And mould grows from a single spore.








Saturday, 18 June 2016

Thoughts Occurring While Looking At Portrait Of Milton As A Child.

In dreary dullness and in gloom
He gazes out, does not look down,
His essence lingers like a perfume,
English roses, warm air blown.
His doublet, once striped gold and brown,
Is black with coal dust dark as doom,
His stiff lace ruff, silly costume of a clown,
In dreary dullness and in gloom,
Is cream and grey like storm tossed spume,
But still it serves to frame his face.  No frown
Distorts his youthful brow, his cheek still sports a coral bloom.
He gazes out, does not look down.
He was not then of great renown,
Yet seems a father to the man. What an heirloom
Man inherits, in childlike clarity of thought which lights up the unknown.
His essence lingers like the perfume
Of a better kind of wisdom which survives beyond the tomb.
His face is grave, his intellectual merit, though not here fully grown,
Is obvious as he looks on. Freedom's not some foul fume
English roses, warm air blown,
Are not sweeter, breathe it in. Why doubt what you are clearly shown?
Past light of stars illume
The present darkness of the night.  Choose what is known.
You aren't children, but free men, born
In dreary dullness.

Thursday, 19 May 2016

A Letter Home From The Islamic State

I miss Greggs' pasties:
Here in the Caliphate
We only eat off a plate,
(It's always a stalled ox with hate
Therein).  We nasties
Are nought if not sticklers for etiquette
And Sharia -
Which is just another word
For manners really, rules.
Like wiping your mouth with a serviette,
Only if you forget,
You get your head cut off,
Or you're thrown in a vat of nitric acid.


It's cool, yet I still fancy a pasty,
Greasy, flabby, warm and flaccid
Just to hold in my right hand.


I got my left one chopped off
Because I didn't understand
That I wasn't meant to use the boss's tools,
And I took his spanners as I hadn't heard
Him stipulate
That using his stuff was haram.


He brought his sword down slam,
And shouted God is Great,
And I thought, yeah, but your'e nasty.
And now the end of my arm,
Looks like a boiled ham,
Which is not a good look, in Islam.


Sometimes when I'm hungry,
I wish he'd chopped off my head,
Instead, because my stomach quite often thinks my throats cut
Anyway.  And there's this constant rumbling in my gut.


Here we live off the fat of the land.
Life's not hard.
It's not that the food here isn't tasty,
It's just they just don't do flaky pastry.
Food in the Caliphate is great, 
Like God, but it isn't like food from Greggs
Which is greater,
Like those ones with meat and potater,
I could right fancy one o' them,
Or some chips and battered cod,
But that's not Halal, either pal,
If it's done like I like: in lard.
So I'd better watch it, or I'll lose my other hand
And both legs.






Sunday, 15 May 2016

The Dumbing Down of Death

When I am gone
Think only this of me,
I did not die
Because I longed to lie
In silence where I couldn't hear
You reading poetry.
Crying, stumbling, sobbing, taking care,
It's all as bad,
Though man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live,
And is full of misery,
Don't make it worse, 
I did not love the works of Edward Lear,
More than the language of the Book of Common Prayer,
So don't read verse.

Friday, 13 May 2016

Never Buy A Second Hand Carpet From "Fluffy Chops"

Never buy a second hand, Persian rug,
From a woman with the user name 'Fluffy Chops,'
You might think it better, and feel smug
About buying a carpet
From a fellow English woman,
Because all those oriental shops
Seem rather a rip off.
But honestly, if you turn up at the door
And see a notice saying,
'Before you report my manky looking Persian cat to the RSPCA
Here are a few things to bear in mind...'
Then you should scarper, because you will find,
Kitty's not the only mangy Iranian.
The rather pretty looking old Nain,
You saw on ebay was only attractive
Because you didn't know,
Anyone would stoop so low
As to sell,
Something with that cheesy, doggy, catty smell.
And your house will never be the same again,
Even though it's rather fragrant already
What with the scent of incontinent pets of your own,
And those certain places that remind you of that last time at the vets,
And the corpses where your poor old friends had laid,
All night, dead, uncured, and gently leaking,
Despite the thousands of pounds you had paid.
When buying second hand carpet, you wish your animals to be alone
In their vile habits,
And you don't wish to confront the possibility of other people keeping house rabbits,
Or to have to give a name,in your head,
To that vivid yellow stain,
Pretend it is there by design, instead.
And it's no good seeking
Compensation, caveat emptor and all that,
EBay isn't the shops,
If you don't like odour of cat
Then strictly speaking,
You were mad to buy anything from 'Fluffy Chops.'

Sunday, 8 May 2016

To Rupa Huq, MP (Labour) An Apolgy For Past Wrongs

(last year she wanted Britain to apologise for the creation of the state of Israel)

Just less than three score years ago, and ten,
in arrogance of recent victory,
so flushed with pride and clear in our certainty
we saw a way to help our fellow men,
and 'put right' history.


We thought our role, was helping those
who wished to live according to their faith,
to worship God according to tradition,
not merely as a private act, but in the institution
of a state, a separate nation.


We thought it wise and right to help men live
according to particular belief,
in acknowledgement of ideas 
such men considered holy
in accordance with God's word and His instruction.

We sought, in pride, to help create a place,
which separated men from one another,
like sheep from goats, accepting of the notion
that ideals of how to live 
were bound up with religion. 


These men themselves had long expressed this need
and in misplaced compassion we agreed.
for after all men suffer persecution
for belief. And persecution was, for some, all they had known.
and who were we, who knew Christ's suffering,
to deny a place of safety unto them
that wished for some small corner of this earth
to be a place to call their own?


Yet who were we?
Was it up to us to grant the wishes of our fellows?
Is it right to intercede in any territorial fight,
cause retributive genocide, displacement, mass migration?
And carve up countries into separate jurisdictions
because certain kinds of men seek domination?
Weren't we deluded in our aims? 
How could we, mired as we were in ancient wrongs,
help put things right?


Was it in our power at all to say
this land belongs to one who worships in this way,
and none must seek to question 
the validity of this high handed action?

And now, do all those who dwell within this sovereign nation,
live in freedom and as equals?
Has intolerance become an unknown notion?
Is it a patch of earth where there's no persecution?
Do all men live at liberty, in this land,
to express their freely held convictions
while governed by such men as understand,
that truth and peace flow from consideration
of the struggle each man has to live life well?
Is there absolute contentment in the total population?
Can we say, with hindsight, we were right to plan
this violent, troubled nation: Pakistan?

Wednesday, 4 May 2016

On The Consequences Of A Surfeit of Right Wing, Online Editions

I want to read something that will make me truly mad,
I love that outraged feeling when I'm justifiably furious,
And there's nothing in the Mail Online that's really all that bad,
I feel no indignation, I don't even feel curious.
So I look again at Breitbart, but I'm getting quite inured
To the actions of those immigrants, so I still feel rather bored.
Then I click on The Spectator, pin all hope on Douglas Murray,
But there's nought by him to stir me up, so then I start to worry,
That I really am immune to quite how vile the world is now,
And that I want it to be viler: I'm a nasty, mad, old cow.

Thursday, 31 March 2016

Watching The Sea From One's In Land Living Room.

Oh I do like to be beside the sea side,
as it flickers in the corner of the room,
where the sand cannot insinuate itself in every crack,
and the brilliance of reflected light 
is tempered by interior gloom:
a sulky fire, a sulky husband and the dark night, winter black.


Yes, I do like to be beside the sea side
where it flickers in the corner, and the spume
and azure air,
or the peaceful, turquoise ocean
make a backdrop, as I stare
at a lovely muscled back,
or a six pack, toned, firm, tight,
at smooth and burnished gold-brown skin 
masculine, 
hard, warm and thin,
(never touched by sun tan lotion)
ripped! Rippling hypnotically, erotically, in waves,
in explanation of the notion,
of sympathetic motion
as Poldark rides, half naked, along the cliff top track.

Wednesday, 23 March 2016

Hashtags And Flowers. (To the tune Kelvingrove)

There are hashtags, there are flowers, there is candle light
There is signalling of virtue, but no end in sight.
There is following the crowd
And pretending to be strong,
There is acting like a coward
Shielding what is wrong.

There are words in mealy mouths,
There is hot air and guff
There are many good intentions
But there's not enough
Of the sort of strength we need
To protect us, and indeed
We'd reject it if we saw it
For our brains are fluff.

Tuesday, 22 March 2016

Kick Ass Woman

When I'm grown up I'm gonna kick ass,
with agility,
and a northern working class accent.
I'm gonna be feisty, I'm gonna be hard as nails
on the outside, with a vulnerable, soft centre,
a certain fragility.
So I will never kick ass unnecessarily. 
And if I start the descent 
into a redundancy of sass,
or feist, I will remember 
that being a northern, female heroine entails
a massive, unsubtle contrast,
an almost schizophrenic mentality.
Bearing that in mind I shall then find
some experience on which to draw,
or think of 'me Nan',
and hard times, and endless grind,
so that I can look wise and sympathise,
before dusting myself down 
and kicking different ass, or kicking ass differently,
because I will be nothing if not creative
in my ass kicking ability.

Thursday, 17 March 2016

A Political Speech.

Today we meet, and in this slice of time,
We must explain our thoughts to you, because
Any power that we feel that we may have,
Is granted unto us, by you. We serve
And will continue so to do, if you
Permit us to.
We know the country is beset with debt
And money we have none.
We ask not that you let us rob you more,
In taxes for our own extravagance,
Or wasteful schemes, designed to take away
This great and ancient thing:  democracy.
We ask just this, that you might trust us, though
We know your trust, thus far we have not earned.
But grant us one chance more and we shall try,
To mind the promises we made before,
And let this nation live within its means.
We shall not try and weave a net of laws
Designed to enervate and stifle man,
We shall not think it is our role to preach
To you about the living of your lives,
Nor to beseech and beg you to believe
Those 'truths' which fashion says today are true,
And greedy men exploit for short term gain.

Evening

The crackling on the blutoothed audio
Is absolutely accurate,
Above Maggie Teyte and Cortot,
Singing and playing on the Robert's radio,
Beamed from a CD on the internet
Remastered from an ancient gramophone.
The combination is perfect.


The coals shuffle down
Lulled by the sizzling
Knowing they're not alone
In sparkling, fizzling.


The little blue toothed flames dance
Feeling the heat of the south of France
Languid, calm and dying away
In crescendos, diminuendos
Matching themselves to the tapering
Phrases, flickering, capering
Over cinders, slowly collapsing,
Then waking and dancing again in reprise.


And only the clock
Refuses to yield to the mood,
Until, right at the end
He seems to unbend
And makes a perfect metronome,
And admits that his heart is beating
To the music's winding and weaving.
And the dog is asleep and snoring:
C'est l'heure exquise.

Thursday, 3 March 2016

Inbox: Junk Mail - Do You Desire An Extra Fire In Your Bedroom Life?

Well, no to be frank.
And I wish you'd stop asking,
You're giving me a complex.
But you see:
By the time I have cleared out the grate,
Shovelled the ash into the bucket,
Taken it out to the bin,
Emptied it,
Come back in
And back upstairs;
By the time I have scented the room
With the sweet perfume
Of paraffin, from Zip firelighters,
(Which don't need unZipping,
So don't really get me in the mood)
Been back down again,
Then:
Carried up the bags of kindling from Lidl,
Screwed up the chip paper,
Arranged it into a pyramid
With old clinkers on top,
(Always a bit of a fiddle)
Found the matches,
And refilled the coal hod
And carried it up,
It's too late.
I'm too knackered for sex.



Saturday, 20 February 2016

"He Who Sacrifices Freedom For An Illusion Of Security Deserves Neither." B. Franklin

(David Cameron declares his EU renegotiation a success)

He who sacrifices freedom 
For the approval of men who have sacrificed theirs
(And whose skill is in bungling then hiding mistakes)
And takes his seat on the rearranged chairs,
Which cover the holes and the rust,
On the deck of the sinking ship;
He who hails his own triumph
And demands loyalty on pain of excommunication;
He who claims victory in negotiation
Having failed to equip
His counterparts with the necessary sense 
That he was sincere;
He who thinks a few old crusts are recompense
Sufficient to endear
Himself to the people who gave him the power
To ensure
That freedom would not be sacrificed,
That Sovereignty was secure;
He who plays high stakes,
Believing stakes are low
And loses every card,
Yet thinks he wins
Is not a man in whom to put one's trust,
But rather one to disregard.

Monday, 15 February 2016

Tinder Valentine

My love is like a pubic louse
That flits from host to host
He picks up girls on dating apps
And notches the bed post.
He's pale and ghastly as a crab,
And really makes me scratch,
He likes my hair and likes my baps,
He really is a catch.


I only slept with him one time
But he's the one for me
He's as stylish as a bag of slime
A walking STD.

Tuesday, 9 February 2016

Youtube Playlist.

How fair this spot, 
This tatty arm chair by the fire,
Where music warms and calms, 
And where desire, expressed in melody 
And graceful, peaceful, arching phrase,
Becomes a thing of abstract beauty,
And the days of endless rain and biting wind 
Have no effect at all upon the mind.
How exquisite is the hour, 
Spent where the lake lies blue
And songs of love and happiness 
Seem dreams which might come true.