Work Scum

Vile class-traiters who do not think it's fair
The workless don't work. While they're working. They're
Usually under-dressed, - educated
To think that way, controlled through their own heads.
Dole scum rise to the top, they think, becuase
Of some sort of strange lefty-loony clause
That sets them free to trample workers down
& mooch around at lunchtimes, drunk, in town,
While workers toil for everything that's good.
Just like unscummy, good citizens should.
But, ask yourselves - what does much work entail?
Making & selling crap. (Oh. Epic fail.)
While lager-swilling scum at least have time.
(& know that life's made of roses & wine.)

Energy

The lights are out. The lights are out. We are in the darkness.
Of man-made night. They use our fright. To fasten our harness.
The gods have flown. Out of their nests. Like unto birds they flew.
Wonder why you're not high? on life? Well, you know what to do.

Let darkness in. Let darkness in. If they won't leave you light
Just "keep on swimming" - godssakes don't go down without a fight.
The underworld awaits you & you're damned if you can't dive.
It's Mortal Combat, this is. Life: no-one gets out alive.

The Economy

The Economy

or 

homo economicus

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is talking right out of his anus.
He makes me (& should make you) most anxious.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His bloodymindedness is boisterous.
His brain is tiny, his ego bulbous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His wallet's elephantine - cumbrous.
The world's a stage. The world is his circus.

He is a fleur de mal. He's a crocus.

Hustings infiltrating every campus.
I would advise students to be cautious.
To reject his advances in chorus.
Refuse to give consent to coitus
(political or otherwise) conscious
of what's at stake. Emmigrate to Cyprus.
He is as trustworthy as a cactus.
He is as bitter as grapefruit. Citrus.
He wants to add your corpse to his corpus.
(He'll try, & all, however much you cuss.)
Would that he were careless as he's callous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is as deadly as James Bond's discus.
He is an idiot - but he's dextrous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His finking's fucked, is brain is - fibrous.
He doesn't lack - but has too much - focus.
It were more fit to trust Doctor Faustus.
His heart ain't made of gold. It's more ... ferrous.
He wants to "get on", wants to"be famous".
But his brain's little more than a foetus
In a skull womb.
Trust Terence McKenna. & trust fungus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
His gaze is empty, his speech gaseous.
What planet's he from? What is his genus?
The absurdity of it's just gorgeous.
His head is grimy. His head is gibbous.
He isn't great & he isn't gracious.
He isn't great. What he is is grievous. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Don't trust him, don't trust his hokey hocus.

Don't trust the homo economicus.
You're drowning, he's home dry on his isthmus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is the ConDem. His is the Janus.
Down with the loan sharks, says I, says Jesus.
Imagine saying that out loud. Joyous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is (most appositely) larcenous. 
Sharp-toothed as a wolf at a door. Lupus.
He is a ghostly bloodstain. The litmus.
His downfall will be lightning-fast, luscious.
Bear in mind he's infected. He's leprous.
The world beyond his barricade's lustrous.
Or his deep, dark & numbery locus. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
If you are the plus, he is the minus.
May I suggest you get all mutinous?

Don't trust him, because the man is monstrous.

 He's a man. Just a man. He's no magus.
 He spews. He spews venom. He spews mucous.
Know that he will mince you in his modus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He's nonplussed & nonplussing. He's Nonplus.
He is noisome & he is noxious.
He makes me (& should make you too) nauseous. 
He makes me (& should make you) quite nervous.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Your life. You or him - wherein the onus? 
Be the death march truncating his opus. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
I know, I know, I know - he is parlous.
He is the minus & you are the plus.
Don't trust him, don't trust his hokey pocus.
He is a onemanband - let him percuss.
He'll deafen you. He will make you pious
re thing wrong things. & he is full of pus.
He'll take the solar out of your plexus.
He takes the pomp out of being pompous.
He is a - um, um, um - he's a ... phallus.
He is the minus & you are the plus.
He is chock full of holes. He is porous.
He is like gollum. He's like "my preciousssss".

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He rants more than I do. He is raucous.
He is raucous. He thinks he is righteous.
May I suggest an imminent rumpus? 
He is out of shape. He is a rhombus.
Let's put him out of joint. Have a ruckus.
His soul is dead, his - smile is rictus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He gets right up my nose, blocks my sinus.
(& is invertebrate & unspinous.)
Take up your pen! your pencil! your stylus!
Serenade him - your sarcasm sumptious.
So sumptuous that you produce a surplus.
His arguments are stonkingly specious.
So as its empty, his skull is spacious.
He is very sure of his own status.
I'm not. 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Trenchant & terrible as The Typhus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
He is from Mars. He isn't from Venus.

Don't trust the homo economicus:
If he's Good News then "I am the walrus". 

Don't trust the homo economicus:
Thank Christ he's too stupid to be zealous.

Salome Zero

The Electorate has a strange look to-night.

said the Prime Minister.

Has she not a strange look? 

She is like an thirsty woman who is seeking everywhere for fizzy drinks. 

She is obese too. 

She is quite obese. 

The nutritionists are seeking to cure her obesity, 

but she will not let them. 

She shows herself obese in the supermarkets. 

She reels through fizzy drinks aisles like a thirsty woman. . . . 

I am sure she is looking for fizzy drinks. 

Does she not reel like a thirsty woman? 

She is like a thirsty woman, 

is she not?

Ah! I have slipped! 

I have slipped in Coke! 

It is an ill omen. 

Wherefore is there Coke here? 

There be some who slay themselves. 

They are The Poor. 

The Poor are people of no cultivation. 

They are ridiculous people. 

I myself regard them as being perfectly ridiculous.

The Daily Mail has written a satire against them. 

I hear in the air something that is like the bursting of bubbles, 

like the bursting of vast bubbles. Do you not hear it?

It is just like the bursting of bubbles.

The Poor are sick to death

Pour me forth fluoridated water.

come drink a little fluoridated water with me. 

I have here fluoridated water that is exquisite. 

Dip into it thy little red lips, that I may drain the cup.

I am not thirsty, Prime Minister.

I have drunk Coke.

Bring me horses

come and eat horses with me. 

I love to see in a horse the mark of thy little teeth. 

Bite but a little of this horse that I may eat what is left.

I am not hungry, Prime Minister.

I have eaten ketamine.

Bid him be silent.

 Do not listen to his voice.

 This man is for ever hurling insults against you.

Carbonation is terrible; 

It breaketh in pieces the strong and the weak as a man breaks corn in a mortar.

The Prime Minister worketh true miracles. 

Thus, 

at a  coalition which took place in a little town of London, 

a town of some importance, 

He changed wine into water.

He was seen on a council estate talking with chavs.

Chavs do not exist.

see Owen Jones.

Chavs exist, but I do not believe that this Prime Minister has talked with them.

I will tax fizzy drinks.

It is thus that I will wipe out all obesity from the country, 

and that all approvably BMI-ed  shall learn not to imitate their abominations.

. . . but I cannot suffer the sound of the Prime Minister’s voice. 

I hate his voice. 

Command him to be silent.

She speaks like an obese woman.

It may be she is with child  with Coke.

What child is that,

The child of Coke?

Mammon.

Wherefore should I not drink Coke? 

The Prime Minister, 

who is lord of the world, 

The Prime Minister, 

who is lord of all things, 

loves me well. 

He has just sent me fluoridated water. 

Also he has promised me to tax the dolescum, 

who are my enemy. 

It may be that the taxes crucify them

He shall be seated on this throne. 

He shall be clothed in scarlet and purple. 

In his hand he shall bear a golden cup full of fluorinated water. 

And the glorious revolution shall smite him. 

BANG BANG BANG.

He shall be eaten of worms.

 

 

A Somewhat Less Crappy Big Poem About Thatcher

Still Hate Her

or

Rot Around the Clock

I hardly have to say who, do I? Her!
I hate her when my watch is four lined noughts.
The witching hour's appropriate. I slur
Her name in anger 'til sleep takes my thoughts,

&, when 1 takes the place of four,
I slay her like a dragon in my dreams
(as though I were a knight in days of yore,
& she the serpent). Fire-mouthed, she creams

out the smoked entrails of her fellow men,
Draconian but anthropomorphic.
She raises it up to her lips again.
2am human cigarette. It's sick.

& when the clock strikes 3, she is still there.

'Forevermore! Forevermore!' she croaks,

the bloody smoke wreathing around her hair,
fag-ash falling, the arms & legs of blokes

too non-u for her falling to the floor.
Blood-waxed parquet. Eleven bloody years
of a glass-ceilinged room devoid of doors.
& her. & her. & her. & her. It's 4.

It's 5. Years into her term. In Brighton.
& she is very nearly exploded.
(I wish I'd done it. Doesn't everyone?)
Thirty long years. Thirty. & now she's dead.

But is she? She's the dragon in my dreams.
The semen in my cola. (True story.)
It's 6. I'm asleep. & they hear my screams
in Calais. All over a dead Tory.

7 o clock, & I wake up in a sweat,
her succubus-ghost heavy on my heart.
A smoke. A coffee. I try to forget.
I can't forget. I don't know where to start.

It's 8. It's hate. It's 8, I mean. I hate
they way I am meant to be all polite
about her, now she's dead - contaminate
political with personal - it's shite.

It's 9, &, after coffee, comes the wine,
& reading in bed (try Tom Hodgkinson).
This is a protest. This is my time. Mine.
(Not quite what The Nameless One would have done.)

Ben chimes 10. I worry my little head
with BBC Parliament. OMG!
Glenda Jackson speaking ill of the dead.
(A politician! Representing me!)

It's 11. & she is in Heaven.
(or Hell. Or ... Somewhere. Or ... Nowhere.)
Why couldn't I be haunted by Bevin?
But no. It's her. It's her. & she's still there...

...still here. High noon. Cucumber sandwiches.
The sun at its zenith. Me not at mine.
Haunted by The High Priestess of Bitches
& the promise of a new paradigm

that's never delivered. 1. I shiver
like she (you know) is dancing on my grave.
She is, of course - all this shit-storm weather?
It rained from her Reign of Terror - it paved

the way for Tory Might is Right today
2 divide & conquer. Rich, poor - Class War:
the right-wing-rich, having a field day,
set the waged poor against the unwaged poor.

& (3) me? I sit on the sidelines, watch
the War & pen my poetry in Peace,
& hope the bobbies on the beat just botch
half of their lawkeeping - it takes the piss.

4 o clock - for the clock keeps ticking by
& Heraclitus put it better than

I ever could: these things pass, we get by.
Time's our man. He can't do it? No-one can!

It's 5 o clock, &, yes, I'm still alive
(& still in bed, still reading) & she's not
risen from the dead yet - & this, the dive
wherein I lie & read's free of her rot,

except in (6) spirit; I mean The News
the bastards blast at us (& charge us for!)
Look out for resurrections of her views
(as though they weren't quite bad enough before!)

7. Sins. 7. Saints. 7. Scroungers.

Biblical language co-opted by Them
for Their own ends. (Which were her ends.) Loungers
in lizardskin, they are - two-faced ConDems.

Back to work! Back to work! We are the boss!

The public servants said. & were not sacked.

We took your freedom. Sorry for your loss. 

Thin end of the wedge? Your brain is hacked.

It's 9 o clock. It's The Nine O Clock News.
We're mourning her, are we? O. O, I see.
Propaganda. Divide. Conquer. Confuse.
Convince me that's it's really only me

who doesn't mourn her loss. & now it's 10.
Epic paranoia holds sovereign sway.

I fear to sleep to dream of her again.

(I really wish she would just go away.) 

11. I'm sorry to say I'm still
obsessing re a dead politician -
I wish I could divert my thoughts at will,
She's outlived her mortal abolition.

A Crappy Little Sonnet About The Thatcher

I'm warming up to write something actually good - &, as I often do on such occasions, I've run off a little warmuppoem. Thus:

Shalt I Compare You To A Beast Who Brays?

Shalt I compare these to a beast who brays
for blood, blood, blood, cannibalisticly?
You're more complex, minotaur. Moral maze-
-s wrap round you. Round us. Politically.

You are a human being. A woman.
A thing of flesh & bones & blood & skin.
I can't see you quite like that, can I? Can
I peel of the Spitting mask & look in?

Behind the Iron Curtain? I'm trying.
But did you ever try, Mrs Thatcher?
To understand the dispossessed, dying 
losers whose lives you ran to capture?

A failed meeting of minds, I'm afraid, dear.
You are the holder for our hate this year.

 

Day 2 Of Trying To Write Something (Most) Every Day: Absurdist Fiction

Absurdist Fiction, Wikipedia says. Alrighty, then.


Doing Nothing

David stopped running. He's lost them, after all. &, if he hadn't lost them, there was no point running - they'd catch up with him eventually. Up ahead, past the loanshark's, was a park left over from when Tottengate Road had housed the unemployed upper-middle classes, as opposed to the unemployed lower-working classes, was a metal-fenced park - locked. Quite what had happened was unclear. Some sort of literal class war? An exodus? A flight path? Something. But that, David told himself, was not the point. The point was, in there, amidst the overgrown trees & the probable hypodermics, he would be safe. Safe meaning unseen. 'Damned cameras.' he said, under his breath. 'Everywhere. Except where it doesn't matter.'
   He climbed over the railings, the rusting paintwork (green over black over a sort of red) come away on his hands like a sort of sudden human lichen. 'Call off the fucking search. I'm gone. I'm gone.' A couple of fir trees oozed their chlorophyllstench out at him, but he nestled between them, allowed their fronds to close around him like the inert tentacles of a B Movie creature. & then something moved.
   'Mister? 'Ave you go' a ligh', Mister?'
   'What?'
   A small boy, in peculiarly disheveled school uniform, was sitting, cross-legged, nestled into the left-hand fir. 'I said, 'ave you go' a ligh'?''
   'Yes, yes, I know what you said. How old are you?'
   The boy shuffled, uncomfortably. 'I only said...'
   'Yes, I know. But you're too young to smoke.'
   'Bu' I do, though, so...' He trundled into a disappointed silence. 'Me Ma' knows I do.'
   'Well, yes, but...' He felt around in his pocket. Felt the cold metal of his lighter. Threw it across.
   'Fuckin' 'ell, mate. That's well bling.' said the boy, turning the silver lighter around in his hands. 'You must be loaded.'
   'I get by. Now, light your cigarette & give me my lighter back.'
   'Keep your 'air on, mate. You're well jittery.' He lit his cigarette, pre-rolled & produced from his shirt pocket. Tossed the lighter back. 'Are you a drug dealer?' He took a lung of smoke. 'Cause, if you are...'
   'I'm not.' David said, sharply. 'For God's sake.'
   'Is this a drug deal, yeah? 'Cause I can sling me 'ook...'
   'It's not, OK? It's really, really not.'
   'I wouldn't have told on you. I ain't no grass.' the boy said, & smoked his cigarette. 'I'm Tom, by the way. Tommy. What's your name?'
   David paused. 'I'm ... David. It's very nice to meet you, Tommy.'
   'Yeah. & who are you hiding from, if you're not a -'
   'Who are you hiding from, Tommy? Your school? Your parents?'
   'Nah. Bobby Flashman said he'd kick my ass, so...'
   'Can't you tell a-'
   'Nah. I'm not telling. I ain't no grass.'
   David laughed. 'There was another Flashman. In a book. Tom Brown's-'
   'School Days. I know, I know. I've read it, man'
   'You've...'
   'I'm not illiterate, man.'
    'Well, no, of course not, I suppose I just presumed that it might not be, well, quite your thing...'
   'No need to get all flustered, yo. I know what I look like. But I'm not, yeah?'
   They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.
   'So who the fuck are you?'
   David paused, took a cigarette out of the cigarette case he secretly kept in his jacket pocket, and said 'I am - I was - the Prime Minister.'
   Tommy laughed. 'I see. So you're, like, off your nut. That's OK, man. I had an aunt what was off her nut-'
    'No, really. I am. Was. You seem like a well-informed kid - don't you recognise me? From off the T.V.?'
   Tommy looked at the ground. 'We ain't got one. T.V licensing people... You know...'
   'What?'
   'They took it.'
   'Your mother didn't pay her bill?'
   'No-one does, yo? What planet are you from?'
   David frowned. 'Someone must, though, Tommy. I mean, if no-one paid the license fee, there'd be no money to pay for the programs, would there?'
   'Well, yeah, rich people do, maybe. No-one else does.'
   David lit his cigarette & drew some of it into his tarry lungs. 'Well, it's not my problem anymore, Tommy. It's not my job anymore. You heard it here first. I quit. Actually, I'm kind of on the run.'
   'Alright.' said Tommy, & smoked some more of his cigarette.