Thought Occurring While Listening To The Curlew By Peter Warlock And Remembering He Was Brian Sewell's Father, Then Remembering Brian Sewell Is Dead.

Did he become
Tins of Pedigree Chum?

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.

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.

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 shall violence subdue:

The peace of the Lord.

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.

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.

Bronze Fennel, Hot June Day

The garden's pubes have wilted in the heat,

Flopped over, quite collapsed and flat,

They're flaccid, lying useless in defeat.

I take the turgid, phallic hose and sprinkle them

Hoping they will rise up, once again look neat.

I'm sure they will, yet now I think of them like that

My filthy mind sees stink horns lurking underneath,

The hard, white, leather balls of jellied slime,

Which burst apart and thrust their polystyrene willies in the air,

Each bell end sporting its white hat.

As a child I'd see them all the time,

In innocence thought nothing of their looks,

I never see them now, and do not care,

For they belong to childhood's beech woods and to fungus books.

And this luxuriant, deep bronze, pubic hair,

Belongs to well kept gardens and grown ups.