The Islamist Scene

It was reported that Berlin police were hunting a member of the ‘Islamist scene’ after he’d driven a vehicle into a pride parade in that city, killing one woman and injuring others. It turned out he was known to authorities and had been imprisoned and was a known risk and undergoing de radicalisation in some programme now shown to be useless. In Britain a Labour MP blamed his anti gay hate on the radicalising opinions of the Reform Part. 

The people involved are not really bad,

The ‘Islamist scene’s’ just another fad,

Its members are strict and rather prudish,

Unlike the gays, who are openly rude-ish.

Both scenes have their looks, their cultural dress,

The gays tend to like to wear rather less,

But bondage gear and desert robes,

Are better than garb worn by ordinary ‘phobes’.

The uptight old natives  are part of no scene,

They’re racist old bastards and think gays obscene,

Unlike the Muslims whose view are sincere,

And shaped by the teaching of one who was queer. 

Still Life

Over thirty years in the making,

Though not really painstaking,

Just shopping,

And in the end a moment’s chopping.

Light falls through the window, left,

A Scotch egg, cleft,

No stalled ox here, served with hate,

Just salad on a celadon plate,

Magenta onion beside,

A Vestment cupboard, black and wide,

An Aumbry 17th century, oak,

Another ecclesiastical find,

A Bible box, is this a joke?

I did not realise I’d made it,

Just bought it,loved it and displayed it,

And even the refectory table,

Brings monks to mind

And God born in a stable,

Who’d feed five thousand in one sitting.

Church furniture is rather fitting,

This fact I feel must be admitted, 

In a kitchen quite unfitted,

But are free standing things heretical?

Or is all that too theoretical?

A rustic linen cloth is spread,

But sadly no fresh, blest white bread,

Instead a few Ryvitas do,

A slice of meat and Shropshire blue.

The candle sticks are not in shot,

But bring more God to this strange spot,

A Tazza, one form, turned parts, three,

It’s timber, Christ the apple tree,

And huge wood bowl with apples in,

To tempt this Eve to eat and sin,

And offer Adam take a bite,

And taste the sweet and sour delight,

Forgetting implants and veneers,

White, bright, civilisation thin,

In this old setting like Vermeer’s

A mule chest, against the wall,

A donkey watching from a stall?

It’s 18th century arches pointed,

The gothic ears of asses

With drips of cooking oil anointed,

Above, a cupboard full of glasses,

Tumblers mostly, some for wine,

Sufficient for the way we dine,

On cold collations puritanical

Or catholic and ecumenical?

For food is food, the whole world o’er,

And Jesus proved that less is more.

I’d better buy a tabernacle,

In which to store some modern tackle.

A Specially Trained Officer

I am the very model of a special, well trained Whatsitsname,

I'm here to give ‘support’ and play a rather controversial game,

My boss, the Crown in England, in light of fights historical,

Says families must call for calm when folk become hysterical. 

I'm very well acquainted, too, with arguments political,

And those upon the right are simple, never philosophical,

Regarding all the theories as to who killed who, now in the news,

My role is to shut those up expressing their uncensored views.

I'm on the side of those who do not wish to integrate and calculate

The State must clamp down hard and legislate,

In short, in matters which provoke and light a nasty far right flame

I am the very model of a special, well trained Whatsitsname. 

I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and the ancient blacks,

I always march with Pride and strive to keep my morals really lax,

I quote in sorrow all the crimes of Britain’s awful Empire,

In comic mood I take the floor to scoff at those who still admire

The works of Shakespeare, Donne or Milton, 

Or modern works which seem to be on giants’ shoulders built on.

I never hum a fugue, it’s simple music I prefer,

Aught reminiscent of the past is that which good men must deter,

Who cares what’s written down on clay in Babylonic cuneiform?

Not me, a special bloke, without a uniform:

In short, in matters ethnic, tense and highly criminal,

I am the very model of a special, mindless animal.

(After every murder in Britain where white British people are the victims of immigrants from Africa or Asia or Albania or the descendants of such immigrants, the police warn us not to speculate about the killer and tell us the victims’ families have requested this. Whereas in fact families in these circumstances are visited by ‘specially trained officers’ whose role is to shut them up and to write political statements in praise of immigrants generally on their behalf to try and keep a lid on civil unrest while the establishment goes on importing hundreds of thousands more unvetted immigrants.  This process is called ‘supporting the victim’s family’.)

God Does Not Exist At Speed

 

In Bach, at least, and probably elsewhere,

God does not exist at speed,

You stumble across Him, 

Slowly, as you sight read.

Which is a good excuse, never to practise to sight read fast, 

As you can’t catch God,

When he’s whizzing past.