Friday, 10 September 2021

Am I Being Hypnotised To Be A Killer?

Every time I read the latest lefty rubbish in the news,

I wonder if I’m being brainwashed, by agents of the state,

Not because I change my mind and start to confuse

Principles of right and wrong, or start to conflate

Truth with Marxist fiction and mindless gobbledygook,

But because when I’m reading

I cannot refrain

From imagining succeeding,

In putting a bullet through the head

Of whoever is writing the rubbish, or saying what’s being said.

And naturally I begin to wonder if some spook,

Isn’t manipulating me remotely, controlling my brain.

Thursday, 2 September 2021

Honest Lying


Everything is propaganda now,

The world adores Edward Bernays,

And who wants blunt truth, anyhow,

Unpalatable things aren’t in these days. 

So where to look for honesty and find

Something like it, close, perhaps akin?

Something that speaks plainly to the mind,

Does not attempt to get beneath the skin. 

Not the news, which is the left or right,

Dressed up as fact

Like some first try transvestite,

Unconvincing, yet so boldly mincing

Words one wishes to believe,

Out of good manners, training, tact.

But in the adverts in between,

That maybe packaged, wrapped

In all the clever lies, so clear and neat,

That we admire and then pretend to swallow,

Here is honest, clear deceit,

Genuinely worthless, empty, hollow. 

Sunday, 29 August 2021

Western Failure


(I have had insomnia for a while and seem to fall asleep in a peculiar way at almost getting up time.  I start to dream before I realise I’m falling asleep and keep startling awake with the peculiar visions. This vision of a young middle class reporter I describe below was one of these dreams.   Yet another I had was even more symbolic, I discovered a dog or cat had made a mess on a Persian carpet several days before, it was cold and greyish, crusted over on top but liquid dark brown beneath, I wanted to clear it up, but simply used a cloth to rub it in, deeper and wider into the carpet. I need to stop reading the news in the middle of the night.) 

When falling over the abyss 

Into morning's fretful sleep,

Adrenaline while coursing through

Brings pictures, fractions of a dream,

Which panic, startle, stir,

They're short and sudden but yet deep:

I see before me some young miss,

Behind her is some war torn view.

Well educated, middle class,

She speaks to camera, some stream

Of sorry hope, ambition dashed,

She braves it out and does not weep,

She feels she's failed the sisterhood.

She's speaking from some neighbourhood

Where women are not free, like her,

But hidden, bullied and oppressed.

Her style is elegant, she's thin,

Her hair is gold, likewise her skin,

She's taken care as she has dressed.

She seems to represent the best

Of all the values of the west,

And yet, though genuine her sorrow,

Is not really what it seems,

She's facing up to real extremes,

And knows the fight that starts tomorrow,

Makes her own pet cause seem shallow.

That's the bit that's hard to swallow,

Knowing 'Western patriarchy'

With its bombs and guns was needed

To impose her girlish vision,

Of a world without division

Where bright hens would rule the roost,

A bossy, pecking matriarchy.

If only 'our boys' had succeeded,

Good old Yanks and loyal British

Not the stone age, vile and brutish,

Not that she could quite admit,

That she was such a hypocrite,

Oh, the fuck she would not give!

While cheering modern Western man,

And sneering at the Taliban

For foreign culture she'd protect

In theory, anyway, object

To thickos, such as me,

Who drew attention to the flaws

Of letting sects among us live,

By different values, different laws.

For foreign brutes are welcome here,

It's us who ought to disappear,

It's only in their native land

Where we should have the upper hand. 

Old Shit on the Persian Rug

Last night I dreamed a pile of shit

Upon a Persian carpet lay

And I had come to deal with it

And clear the awful mess away.

It was cold

And coloured grey,

A foul smelling canine pat,

And crusted over on the top,

Had lain there long, was getting old,

Yet I approached it with a mop

And simply squashed it, made it flat,

And rubbed it deep into the pile,

And then against the pattern’s grain,

And spread it out so far and wide

It almost reached the other side,

And added water,

Made it wetter,

Thinking this would make better,

It only left behind a stain. 

Study Shows Public Fed New Bullshit Every Day

A study in the journal Nature shows,

The public are still being fed BS.

A study by a scientist who knows,

Will demonstrate they would not care for less,

They're used to propaganda now, you see,

They're happy inside Plato's cave, secure,

And bullshit tastes delicious and it's free,

So let them take their fill, then give them more.

A study in the Lancet makes things clear

A new computer model has predicted

The public will demand more every year,

And also ask that they should be restricted,

And that those who still question things be shot,

Philosophers think everything's a plot.

Thursday, 19 August 2021

Fast Food Joint, Pompeii

Duck, Snails and Paella,

Roll up, roll up, Roman fella,

I have a hunch

You’ll need your lunch.

Snails, Paella and Duck,

Will bring you great good luck,

Duck, Paella and Snails

As the lava flow trails,

Glides, slides down Vesuvius’ sides,

You’ll hear the screams and wails

As you yell a

Farewell, away you will flee 

Hot footing it, literally, down to the sea,

And you’ll give a kind thought to the seller,

Of Duck and Snails and Paella,

Who provided the fuel to the coast,

Where you think you’ll avoid being roast,

Where you’ll hide from the tide

In a sea cave or grotto

Where yet you’ll be boiled alive, like a squid

And not feel that I did you much of a quid

And won’t live to do me a pro quo,

But in that last moment at least you will know 

Your last meal was duck, snail Paella, 

And not boring old slug, goose Risotto.  

Tuesday, 10 August 2021

Where a Vaccine Is Not A Sterilising Force It Becomes A Selective Force.

The Day it Dawned On Bill Gates That Vaccines Were A Selective Force

My goose will lay its eggs of gold

And all the world shall I command

Though I am rich and getting old

In business I still have a hand.

And I have all the future planned

A vaccine’s a selective force, I’m told,

Germs mutate, you understand:

My goose will lay its eggs of gold

The yearly shots will then be sold

As updates to the software, bland

‘Cures’ for something like the ‘common cold’,

And all the world shall I command.

The death I cause in every land

Is naught. I’ll face it down. Behold

Your god, behold my power, do whatever I demand,

Though I am rich and getting old

My tendencies increase tenfold

Psychopathy like wealth. I might be damned 

But what is that? Half the world I’ve bankrolled,

In business I still have a hand,

And all the world still buys my brand,

I’ll shape mankind, from my new mould

Rearrange their dna, and 

Won’t let men consent withhold.

My goose will lay!

We will not rest until 100% of the goal posts have been shifted

I will not stop until I’ve finished here,

And since my work, by nature, cannot end

I will not ever stop, so have no fear,

I am your man, on me you can depend

I’ll push this thing as far as it can go.

The headline writers will not headlines lack,

I’ll keep them fed and keep them in the know,

As far as possible, and then change tack,

And set a fresh, new course for us to follow.

Which I will claim will be the best of all.

I’ll make the whole change easier to swallow

By claiming I’m responding to the call

Of practical concerns. I never drift,

My life’s work's getting goal posts to shift.


Wednesday, 28 July 2021



The truth dawns. 

That is how you know it,

Mostly it dawns literally,

But perhaps it’s always dawn somewhere,

So if it should dawn

When it’s not yet morn

Where you are,

Don’t eschew it,

Don’t reject it,

Don’t blow it,

Imagine you’re there.

Truth dawns

But don’t expect to shoe it

Into one of your pre-existing theories,

Or discover it.

Truth, frog-like, spawns,

In safe places

But you can’t uncover it

By determination,

Although it leaves traces,


Truth is not news, comment, views,

You might get near it,

But remember, near is

As good as a mile.

Truth plants seeds,

But germination 

Sometimes takes years,

And truth seeds don’t always grow 

Amongst your other ideas,

Truth might be biology,

But it isn’t ideology.

Truth doesn’t care 

About what you think you already know.

Though when it hits you

You might shout “I knew it!”

Truth has no style,

No affectation,

Isn’t prone to exaggeration,

Needs no long winded explanation,

And is not always easy to digest,

However long you chew it.

First Service With Music For 16 Months

Dear Lord,

you got through to me on Sunday, healed.

Took away the petty stress, built up, revealed

Yourself, not in the great soft blanket of love and peace

The half tranquilliser, half fleece

Way you sometimes do, 

But in that other way of knowing you,

That doesn’t always work as it’s meant to.

You came to church, and in the ancient place

Your Grace shone through.

The sunlight was more than warm beams on wormed beams,

The whitewash was more than a metaphor,

The hymns’ rhyme schemes 

More than rhymed, internally, chimed, schemed it seemed

To reinforce the pressing themes:

Journeying, pilgrimage

And the need for valour, being brave,

Living, not merely avoiding the grave.

Tuesday, 27 July 2021

Real Fascism Has Not Been Tried, Recently.

 Real Fascism Has Not Been Tried Recently

No, this authoritarian approach

Is not the Fascism that I admire,

But I don’t care for questions or reproach,

Ideas and history still light my fire.

And no, I will not now concede 

That any ideology is wrong

That says consider first the ‘in group’s’ need,

You needs must prove by action you belong.

I know that vaccine passports aren’t the way,

Experimental vaccines can’t be forced,

But give me ‘in group’ thinking any day,

In theory, in discussion, quite divorced

From what is going on from week to week.

I’m not some lefty individualist

The truth and best way forward’s what I seek,

And yet I can’t abide a pragmatist.

And real Fascism has not been tried,

And who today is Caesar, ‘One Great Man’?

Bill Gates, Klaus Schwab? Such men must be denied

Simply on the basis that I am not their fan,

Since they disguise their psychopath’s ideas,

And don’t acknowledge all their thinking owes

To Hitler, Franco, Mussolini, those

Who came before.  And scared of people’s fears

They hide behind the ‘green’ agenda still,

Their thinking is not national but global,

And they care naught for beauty, what is noble,

And using dread disease impose their will

And style themselves as would-be hero Nannies,

Who, killing the economy, 'save' grannies,

Sunday, 25 July 2021

On ‘Post Pandemic’ Hymn Singing


Two rondeau joined together 

Sung Eucharist and hymns, today

And sunlight pouring in to pray

And warm the ancient whitewashed walls

And still yet empty choir stalls

And hear the musty organ play

The Sanctus and the Agnus Dei,

And know that we had gone astray

But had returned, and that our calls,

Sung Eucharist and hymns,

Were some repentance for the way

We’d never dared to disobey

Our earthly leaders. Lacking balls

We’d shut our mouths. In power’s halls

They’d hoped to end by slow decay,

Sung Eucharist and hymns.

And always out of love we sing,

And give our thanks to God the King

We must learn lessons we’ve been taught:

Our good intentions come to naught

When bossy men claim everything

Could dread disease to others bring,

Though this is nonsense, as hymns spring

From prayers and praise and kind support,

Always out of love. 

And loving God removes the sting

From all our earthly suffering.

We should have argued, should have fought

But lacked the balls and so were bought

And now take orders from a ‘ping’,

Always out of love?

Wednesday, 21 July 2021

God in Poetry

 God in poetry is Rhyme,

And Rhythm, also Form.

Another Holy Trinity,

But which makes poetry sublime?

Which has the power to transform,

Change wisdom to divinity,

Which lets it stand the test of time?

And which can miracles perform?

Are these three masculinity?

Since Form dictates where Rhyme occurs

Then Form, must be the Father,

And Metre from the Form descends,

So Metre, as the Son, defers

To patriarchal wisdom, rather

Justifies its father's ends.

Which means that Rhyme is Holy Ghost

And spirit, breath of life.

And yet it limits our free choice

And offers only what is most.

Which means not what is vulgar, rife,

But that to which real truth gives voice.

And this transforms the poem, host,

Cuts out the dross with surgeon's knife,

And so in discipline, rejoice!

Dropping Off

A fraction of a dream, dense, small,

Before the moment of the fall

Into the full engrossing sleep

An image, most intense and deep,

A vision and a distant call

A picture drawn from some rushed trawl

Through visions stored we don’t recall,

And from the bottom of the heap,

A fraction of a dream.

Sometimes it warns and can appal, 

So we cry out, although we drawl

Our tongues in knots, we wake and weep,

And know that what we sow, we reap,

And what we are is here, is all,

A fraction of a dream.