Tag Archives: Poetry

Poems of Politics

The carnival of lies


“You needn’t worry,”

Said Mr Heath in ’72,

“You’ll be as British

As you ever were!”

And smiled through his lie.


“The British people,”

Tromboned Mr Wilson in ’75

“Must choose” –

But only on our terms

Said the creatures in the shadows.


“It’s only a market –

And markets are good!”

Said Mrs Thatcher in ’85,

Seduced by a word.

Mr Heath grinned.


“Subsidiarity means,”

Said Mr Major in ’92,

“We may still do some things

We’ve always done. It’s a triumph!”

Mr Heath laughed  out loud.


“We’re winning the battle,”

Chanted Douglas Hurd in ’95

“Things are moving our way.”

Sir Edward lay replete

With his long betrayal.


“We’re at the heart of Europe”

“Thinbgs are going our way”

Trilled Tony Blair

And the whole of Europe laughed

As it closer sheared the sheep.


We’ll give you a referendum

Said Cameron and Clegg

If  Britain has not been sold again

Before we get to number 10

As Brown scurried  to his treason.


I’ve used our veto  brags Cameron

And Europe drops the veil

Of democratic pretence

And  functionaries devour

The elected.


And the liberal said


And the liberal said,

With a moron’s profundity,

All men are the same.

How strange that they

Should fight in our new world.


And the liberal said:

How ridiculous,

This is the twentieth century!

But the mass of men acted

As they always had.


And the liberal said:

This is mediaeval,

Reason will prevail.

But the mass of men shouted reason down,

As they always had.


And the liberal said:

It’s only a matter of time,

Of men being shown the way.

But the mass of men refused to sit

On one legged ideological stools.


And the liberal said:

Just a little more time

Or another way.

But the mass of men refused to be

Bound in the ways of reason.


And the liberal said:

We know best, man can evolve,

Nurture is all.

But the mass of men still moved

In predestined genetic ways.


And the liberal said:

We need more money,

It’s just a matter of education.

But the mass of men heard their words

And thought them empty vanity.


And the liberal said (privately):

How infuriating!

What lesser men are these!

But the mass of men refused

To see their fault.


And the liberal said:

These are but children,

Give them time to learn.

But the mass of men rose up

And no longer let the moments pass.


And the mass of men said:

What a thing is freedom!

How painful, so burdensome a state!

And oppressed the liberal

As he had oppressed them.


The internationalists


Men who do not understand

What is beyond

The satisfaction of plodding reason

And mundane wants and needs;

Men who do not see

That a land is more than

Rocks and rivers, trees

And fields or the

Atom called a man,

But a myth of oneness

Which a people has,

Where rich and poor

Live half separated lives

Yet still believe

Themselves a part

Of something greater

Than a vulgar mass of

Coldly counted men.



A man says forbidden things,

Then another  and change

Filters through single

Grains of courage.

What was blasphemy

Becomes the commonplace,

And men are as lions

Who once would have lighted

The way to ignorance

With the tallow

Of their thoughts,

Sent heavenwards

By stinking faggots,

Damp with hate and fear,

To leave an ash

Of unrequited curiosity,

Which like the phoenix

Is never truly killed.



Twenty twenty one

And the pogroms come

Because no Public One

Would heed the thrum

Of Nature’s drum

Saying ever on

Before each one

The tribe must come.


Too late, too late!

Bend your mind towards the wind,

All around is heard the whisper –

Our rulers are effete

And none new to be found.

Soon the world will shake

Before never altered truths

Of blood and  land

Which hide behind

The scapegrace clothes

Of selfish fools

Who mewl upon an idea

Thinking wishing is reality.

Poems of Existence

God’s Ennui

The press of moments

The dullness of the present

The synthesising of existence

The ending of doubt

The quietude of knowing

The staleness of omniscience

The desire for oblivion

The impossibility of nothingness

The sadness past the mending

The blind wall of the futile

The eternal engine of isness

All becomes part of a whole

Nothing has distinction.

The viciousness of being.


The ineffable   

A flower opening, a man thinking;

A mole burrowing, purblind only in sight.

Wings beating an ageless rhythm,

Generations uncounted.

Normal is as normal does,

Abnormal is as most don’t,

Undigested otherness.

Purpose always inherent

In things which are,

Yet where to seek or glimpse

A semblance of certainty?



I am the perceiver.

I have the power.

I know the ending.

I was the why.

I am the now.

I will complete.

I shall say enough.



Logic is the god of isness,

The cranking engine of being.

Every possibility, every was

Or might or maybe

Ground hard sure to facts

By the mill of must,

If this then that, not perhaps.

The universe thralled

To laws which chide

Green doubt to oblivion

And fashion certainty.

All is one thing or another,

Gorgeous simplicity.


The building of illusion

An ultimate point of mass,

Expanding, none knows why,

To a  state where particles

Shimmer into simple atoms

Which transmute to complexity

Through mere existence.

Ten a world discordant,

Settling to a unity of form

Which accidentally births

The amoeba  from flinty inertness,

Disrupting entropy accidentally

But signifying nothing.

An eon or two of isness

And a being who thinks

Tat here is free will,

An untrammelled desire,

No chance agglomeration;

The building of illusion.



Screech, screech!


Screech, screech!


Screech, screech!

Undecided being.

Screech, screech!


Screech, screech!


Screech, screech!


Screech! Screech! Screech!



Existence equals competition.

Competition equals events.

Events equal results.

Results create conditions.

Conditions are existence.

Existence equals competition.


Motion to energy, awareness or unnoticed isness.

Where is proper explanation and analogy?

Things which are, have been or linger for futurity

Through the aperture of consciousness.

But give no lasting truth

Because of chaos.



Like times were never seen

Nor perceptions made,

But in the sanctum of my mind

Where all creation’s laid.


The ascribing of value.

The judging of the unbounded

The pounding of the moments

Upon the skein of mind

The sharpening of sense

At the knowledge of error.

The sin of hearing things

Above the commonplace.

The pestle of being

Grinding to madness

The understanding.



This press of being which grows within

This shaking of the mind

This maddening of me

These falling leaves of experience

Which flutter to nothing

In the vice of time

This debris of a life

Littering my conciousness

Ex nihilo I came

Ex nihilo I go.


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