March

The decaying fabric of everyday life,
Anarchy is never more than six feet away;
If I ever felt safe behind my own wall
I will visit again those who had nothing at all.
The salmon started swimming a different way,
I felt their magnets in my heart;
The statues of lions would tear me apart
If not preoccupied queuing for bronze.
I followed a ferrous stream to where it began,
Agitpropists on a Parisienne lawn,
There’s nothing like a contagion
For dispersing my personal
Mouvement des Gilets Jaunes.
In a former Time, statisticians reported
That we were not more than six feet away
From a bubonic-plague-incubating rat,
But now I expect it is a little less than that.
I toured the empty boulevards
Where literature once ferried me,
March has nothing left to give
When only two people with a banner meet.
Centuries before, children chimed
“A penny for the guy”
To commemorate the dismemberment
Of a terrorist captured under Parliament;
His quarters sent to the empire’s corners,
Now in their barrows they push without custom
A white cross on a shaved cat’s stomach,
While a plasticised ivy grows through the cellars.

Bildungsroman

This short lifelong, stayed terrified,
I skimmed my teeth and lost my mind;
The terror created by those outside,
But now I know there’s peace to find.

Leaders atop should pour kind profit,
And better times for people,
Yet my dictators dressed as prophets
And had the strong made feeble.

Those demons dressed as every-day folk,
Surveyed from a yellow soffit;
It’s the innocent who suffer most
On the road from Vectis to Moffat.

Through cataracts of oil they broke,
Dissolving bells in the spire;
Meadows choked, a flame awoke,
And set the forests on fire.

I looked at women in cages kept
By men who beat them for wages;
My eloquence lost to the internet,
Overdosed, I slept through the ages.

Protestors drove to the city,
Berating grey expansions,
When its placards versus tyranny
Suppressors sing in their mansions.

Next they stole my language,
Words once sweet as clover;
My father murdered at Sandwich,
Through Hastings dragged, and Dover.

My kidnapped son, he’d be handsome,
But I’ve not seen him for years;
Monthy I still pay the ransom,
And forget the feeling of tears.

The demons would turn those souls with tongs
Into rolls of garlicked black-pudding,
But should still a seed dispenser bring bird-songs,
I will burst out from my hooding.

 

 

 

Ni Una Menos

The gods are with those who fled,
Moments before a state-imposed deadline;
The hoodwinked donated bullets for bread,
Tidemarks are the breadline.

They sought work abroad, professionally wasted,
The journo’s a postman, the surgeon’s a baker.
Back home, they had the booksellers basted,
Agitprop is promoted, to be a peacemaker.

The crowds will be marching, banners and slogans,
The industrialists’ profit from a fixed water cannon;
The pacifists rallying were shot by the pro-guns,
While the Minister for Peace toured a factory in Annan.

No matter if Terror removes our scalps,
Or makes blankets from protestors’ hair, they said,
As long as you can buy flights to the Costas and Alps,
And hear the Shipping Forecast tucked up in bed.

The Ministries of Happiness and Dialysis merged,
The Secretary of State hated hearing of words,
(So many words, who knew so many would have to be purged),
These quacks who bemoan waiting times and wards

So overcrowded, they’re treating children in boiler rooms;
So he had the hospitals either closed or rebranded.
The Minister for Porn woke up late and resumes
Invasions of privacy, to keep in place the red-handed. 

The king’s abdicated since his uncle groomed
Television presenters for well-cushioned thrones;
There are thousands in stadia stranded and doomed,
They make gallows from goalposts and wear headphones

To censor the sound of the women’s screams.
In Shetland, the tidemark is called a shoormal.
March womankind, march beyond dreams,
These man-made visions must not become normal.